Christ. She wanted to kiss me.
By the time I pull up outside her flat, she’s completely out. I find her keys in her bag and, with her arm draped over my shoulder, carry her up the stairs. She’s small but warm in my arms, her breath soft against my neck.
Her flat is exactly what I expected — neat, bright, full of colour. A pink sofa, a lime-green blanket, and a ridiculous amount of kitchen gadgets. Everything in her world seems lighter than mine.
I lay her down on her bed and she curls into a tight ball. She kicks off her heels — small mercies — and I pull the sheet over her, careful not to disturb her. I find a pink bowl in the kitchen and place it beside the bed, just in case.
As I turn to leave, her hand touches my arm.
“Don’t go,” she murmurs.
“Matilda—”
“Stay,” she whispers, already half asleep.
And just like that, I can’t move. There’s something about the way she says it — soft, unguarded — that pins me to the spot.
So I do.
I grab the lime blanket from her sofa and settle into the armchair by her bed. The city hums faintly outside the window. Her breathing evens out.
I know I won’t sleep, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t leave her like this.
I stare at the ceiling, mind replaying every word she said —wanted to kiss you… came out to forget you.
Whether it was the alcohol talking or not, I can’t shake the sound of it.
Tomorrow, I’ll talk to her. I’ll apologise, tell her the truth — that this has gone too far, that I can’t keep crossing the line between professionalism and whatever this is.
But for tonight, I just sit there, watching over her in the soft glow of the streetlights, wondering when exactly she became the only thing in my life that still makes me feel human.
Fourteen
Matilda
My head is splitting, my alarm’s shrieking, and I’m convinced my brain is trying to crawl out through my ears. I grope blindly around the bed for my phone, smacking the sheets until I finally silence it. The ringing stops — thank God — but the damage is done.
I need water. I need sleep. I need a full-body replacement because everything hurts.
Why did I drink that much? I never drink like that. I’m the girl who knows her limits — who politely nurses one glass of wine and calls it a night. But last night? Last night I apparently decided to audition forself-destruct mode,starring tequila, bad decisions, and Henry bloody Chase running through my head on repeat.
“Morning.”
The voice behind me sends me bolt upright with a shriek so unholy it could raise the dead. I whip around and—
Oh, God.
Henry.
Sitting in my armchair. Hair messy, eyes heavy with sleep, stretching his neck like he’s been there all night.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, his voice rough from sleep. “Didn’t mean to scare you. After I brought you home, I was worried you might be sick, so I stayed. Hope that’s okay.”
After I brought you home.
I blink at him, brain lagging by several crucial seconds.
“Yeah—” A horribly unladylike cough escapes me, followed by what might have been a gag. “Yes. Thank you. What…?”
