Page 60 of Love at First Fright

“Oh, speaking of—” His face lit up, that gorgeous animation returning. “Fontaines are touring in London this October. I managed to snag a ticket before they sold out. It’s at Alexandra Palace, which should be incredible. The acoustics there are supposed to be amazing, and I’ve heard they put on a proper show, you know? Not just standing there playing the hits, but like, actual performance.”

He gestured with his free hand whilst he spoke, his words tumbling over each other.

“I saw them at a tiny venue in Camden a few years back—God, they were brilliant. Way before they got huge. And now they’re selling out Alexandra Palace, which is mental when you think about it. Their last album was—”

I nodded along. Made appropriate noises. “Mm-hmm.”

But I wasn’t listening. Not really.

I was staring at the light dusting of stubble that shadowed Charlie’s jaw. What would it feel like under Brad’s palm? Rough? Soft? Would Charlie’s breath catch if I reached out and traced that line? Would he lean into the touch?

No, Bat, he’d punch Brad in the face.

I shifted Brad’s weight. Leaned against the counter a fraction closer to Charlie. Our arms almost touched now—separated by mere inches of air.

“—and the opening act is supposed to be this band from Dublin, I can’t remember their name, but apparently they’re influenced by The Cure, which could either be amazing or—”

I adjusted Brad’s stance again. Pretended to examine something on the counter.

Our sleeves brushed.

Charlie didn’t notice. Kept talking, his enthusiasm pouring out in waves.

“—so I’m hoping they play some of the older stuff too, not just the new album, because ‘Big’ is still one of my favourite songs, and live it must be just—”

I let Brad’s elbow rest against the counter. Moved it slightly to the left.

Contact. Fabric against fabric, but underneath—warmth. Charlie’s warmth, bleeding through both our sleeves.

He glanced at me. Smiled, like I was sharing this moment with him properly.

Guilt twisted in my stomach. Brad’s stomach.

“You cold?” Charlie asked, noticing how close I’d gotten. “We could try to light a fire in the lounge if you want?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He went back to his musical monologue. Something about vinyl pressings and limited editions and coloured records.

I needed more.

Carefully, so carefully, I angled Brad’s body. Just a sliver closer. Close enough that when Charlie gestured, his hand nearly grazed Brad’s shoulder.

The kitchen shrank. The air between us charged with something I couldn’t name and didn’t want to examine.

Charlie paused mid-sentence. Tilted his head.

“You sure you’re alright?”

“Never better.”

He studied Brad’s face for a moment, then shrugged and continued. “Anyway, I was thinking of getting there early, queuing outside. The queue’s part of the experience, right? Meeting other fans, that sort of thing. Though I usually go to gigs alone nowadays—”

I shifted again. Our shoulders touched now. Proper contact. He smelled like something. Something underneath the dust and damp of Grimthorne Manor.

I leaned in. Just slightly. Millimetres, honestly.

Fruit. Sweet fruit and flowers.