It’s all looking very intimate in here and I can’t lie and say I’m not enjoying it. And here’s something else I never thought I’d say: though the sex is phenomenal, it doesn’t compare to being held by Kian all night.
Kian Walker has turned me into a cuddler. The other guys I’ve let grace my bed in the past never got the pleasure; they were lucky if I let them catch their breath before they were out the door. Even when Johannes and I were sleeping together it was never like this.
I’m not sure what’s different about Kian. There’s proximity, obviously, and sexual chemistry, so maybe he’s just convenient. I’ve always liked low-effort convenience.
But there’s so much that’s just plain wrong about calling Kian purely convenient.
I know that’s not why this is good between us.
Maybe that’s why I feel so on edge right now, because this is starting to feel very cosy and comfortable and … like a relationship. I mean, I’ve never been in one before so I don’t really know, but these days, when I feel bad, I’d rather go home to Kian and cuddle him in bed than go out and get shitfaced and shag a random.
This scares me, but I also really, really want it. Hence why I’m so on edge.
I also really care about whatever it is that sometimes gives him nightmares, which is another new experience for me.
He sometimes mutters in his sleep, often just complete nonsense, but whatever he’s got to say tonight has his tongue moving a mile a minute.
‘It doesn’t go there,’ he grumbles, arms squeezing around my waist, pulling me closer and out of my messy thoughts.
I’m desperate to ask him what, what doesn’t go where? But I don’t know if I should disturb him or not. Instead, I hold him closer, so he knows he’s not alone.
‘No, no, no!’ He chants the words over and over again and as I peer over my shoulder his face twists and contorts with pain. ‘Not yet, no!’
I’m not sure if sleep screaming is a thing, but his words get louder. He’s almost crying out at this point for whatever’s going on in his dream to stop, and I slink out of his arms to roll over.
‘Hey, Kian. Kian, it’s okay.’ I gently shake the side of his arm, but his legs start to thrash at the sheet, almost as if he’s trying to run. ‘Baby, come on, it’s okay.’ The pet name slips out, but I can’t find it in me to care. I just want to stop the pained expression on his face.
I shake him once, twice, three times, and only on the third time do his eyes fly open, his breath coming out in heavy pants. His eyes go wide, startled, before he pushes himself into a sitting position.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, like I’m looking worried because he’s inconvenienced me by being like this. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’
‘You didn’t. Are you okay?’
Instinctively, I reach for him. Normally this is his move, but it looks like he’s the one who needs to be held this time.
‘I don’t know … I don’t know what that was, but … but I was dreaming about my mum dying.’ His voice cracks as he says the final two words and wet eyes shine in the dark as he finally looks at me.
He finally lets me pull him completely against me, my arms wrapped tightly around him as he bawls into my shoulder. Tears drip down my bare skin, our bodies flush together as I hold him for ten, twenty, who cares how many minutes. I’d stay here with him forever if it meant he’d be okay.
When did I start thinking I’d move heaven and earth to see Kian Walker happy?
Daylight begins to drip in around the edges of the blinds in the motorhome. Kian pulls away from me, snuffling into the back of his hand.
‘You’re all wet, sorry.’
His face splits into laughter as he realises what he’s said and the sound envelops both of us, the tears he shed just moments ago forgotten.
I’m sure the healthy thing to do would be for us to talk about his nightmare, but this is all new territory for me, and I don’t know how to navigate it. So I do what I do best and lean into him again, this time capturing his mouth with mine.
There’s a saltiness to his lips as I swipe my tongue across the seam of them, pleading with him to let me in. It’s a lazy kiss, and we slide back into a horizontal position, sharing one pillow, our bodies hot from the duvet we’ve slipped back under. Yet I don’t care. I can’t find it in me to care that this might not lead to sex. I’m content to just lie here with him and explore each other’s mouths until I know every inch of his and mine becomes his second home.
It’s enough.
And it feels like it’s enough for him, too.
LikeI’menough.
I’ve been working on this in therapy, and I try to slow down and just exist in the feeling of being enough. It’s strange and unsettling. And also wonderful.
