“I hate that room I’m in. It smells bad.”
“It doesn’t smell.”
“The bed smells.”
“We should…” Fuck. I should have done this last week. It was part of my duties, and I should have taken the time. “Monday. You and I are driving up to Oban, and we’ll get you some things for your room. New bedding, and I think you need some new clothes.”
He was still in that threadbare tracksuit. Saying nothing.
“Mr Bethan gave you some clothes, I believe.” I tried to sound cheerful. “You should wear them. Then you can get this tracksuit washed. You need to wear shoes.”
“Those clothes, they’re not mine, are they?”
Another conversation that I didn’t want to have standing in the hallway of Spring House at eleven in the evening on a Friday night. And here was Mr Bethan. Thank God.
“Butcher. Good evening, Mr Riley.”
“Butcher needs a snack and some clean sleepwear,” I said. Because I was an idiot. Then I fled.
He was still there, Noah, which resolved the biggest of my current concerns. Maybe all of this would have made him run again, and that would have been awful. But he hadn’t. Instead, he was standing by the little kitchenette making us tea.
“Found everything. You even have milk.”
“Asked our cook for supplies. I need to get better at organising myself here.”
“Kid okay?”
“Yes. He will be. I need to take him out on Monday and get him his own things for his room. I just didn’t have time this week, and now I feel guilty.”
“He’s just a kid. Lonely probably, and he likes you. Is this a regular thing? Him turning up here?”
“I’m locking the door, just in case,” I said, doing just that. “He turns up…sometimes. I told him he could, and he’s… It’s not easy. I need him to make some friends, and then things will settle down.”
“Shush,” he said, this Noah. This smiling, lovely man, standing there in my home like he belonged here. I realised he did. He absolutely did, and yes, that was me, traversing the room faster than I’d planned on and throwing myself at him.
Because I could. Because he was here, and now? Now I was trying to kiss him and touch every part of him and talk at the same time, clearly unable to get my brain coordinated enough to form a solid…sensible plan of action.
“I’ve done all those things this time, I’ve…douched,” came out of my mouth. Yes, I expected sex. Lots of it. I hadn’t had it since that holiday, and I wanted it. I also wanted that cup of tea, and I wanted him naked, and why did he look so good in a hoodie?
“Fox.”
“I know I was a mess last time, but I’m actually sensible and…”
“Fox, shut the hell up. Do you think I care? Do you think you have to do all that…with me? Me?”
“I don’t want you to think…”
“Do you expect me to…do all that?”
“I don’t know?”
“Darling.”
“Darling?” I wrapped him up in my arms, fully dressed and stupid. Held him and rocked him, and I finally felt like things had… It wasn’t even an argument. It was just him being anxious and me being me. And it didn’t fucking matter.
“It really doesn’t fucking matter,” he said softly into my hair. His fingers back in it, all tangled and tugging at it. “It’s not something I expect from you, and I can tell you know; I don’t have a clue about how to…douche. I may be a doctor, but that is not something I’ve ever…done because medically it’s really not necessary. The body does a good job cleaning itself out, and messing with that can cause other issues. Lubrication is important, though. Keeps the linings protected from friction.”
“Okay,” I whispered into his armpit. Being held far too tight.
