Page 61 of Love at First Fright

My beating heart lurched.

Charlie’s voice became background noise—pleasant, musical, but distant. All my attention focused on that scent. That glorious, living, clean scent.

I needed more. Needed to bottle it, keep it, drown in it.

Slowly, so very slowly, Brad’s body moved. I angled my head down, pretending to look at Charlie’s phone screen again. In reality, Brad’s face hovered extremely close to Charlie’s shoulder. Extremely close to that blond head of curls.

The fruity smell intensified. Shampoo. Some kind of shampoo that probably cost one quid from the supermarket but smelled like heaven distilled into liquid form on him.

Another memory stirred. Faint, fuzzy around the edges.

A bathroom floor. Steam fogging the mirror. Someone’s head resting against my shoulder—mine, my real shoulder—their wet hair soaking through my shirt. Auburn hair. The sweet smell of their shampoo mixing with the steam.

Laughing. We’d been laughing about something. Something stupid and perfect and lost to time.

Who were you?

The memory slipped away like soap in water.

But this—this was right here. Right now. Real.

I inhaled deeper. Let Brad’s nose drift closer to those soft golden strands.

Soft. Ticklish. One curl brushed against Brad’s nostril.

Pure bliss flooded through every borrowed nerve.

Charlie’s voice cut off mid-word. He lurched sideways, eyes wide.

“Did you just sniff my hair?”

I grimaced. Caught. Red-handed. Red-nosed.

“I was just… checking if you’d washed it recently.”

His mouth fell open. “What?”

“No—fuck—that came out wrong—”

“You’re a funny one, Brad.” Charlie shook his head, but his eyes sparkled, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Do you know that?”

Those lips. Christ, those lips.

Pink. Soft looking. The bottom one slightly fuller than the top, with a perfect cupid’s bow. When he smiled properly, like now, they curved into something that belonged in an art gallery. Cherubs and saints and divine grace made flesh.

A tiny scar marked the left corner—so small I’d missed it before. A story lived there. Some childhood accident, probably. A fall from a bike, maybe.

I wanted to know. Wanted to ask. Wanted to trace that scar with Brad’s thumb and hear Charlie’s voice explain it, casual and fond and—

We stood frozen. Air thick between us.

Charlie’s smile faded into something else. Something uncertain.

His eyes dropped to Brad’s mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.

The moment stretched. Pulled taut like a guitar string about to snap.

Oh no.