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“Thanks,” I tell him softly.

“Any time,” he tells me. “I’m sorry but I really need to sleep. I have to organise a group of fifteen-year-olds tomorrow whilst they pack up a campsite, and that’s not something you can do on less than six hours’ sleep.”

“Sure,” I whisper.

My stupid traitorous brain immediately starts trying to analyse the situation anyway. The fact that his voice is soft, and he let me share his sleeping bag. But it might not mean anything, this is just who Tom is.

He’s kind. He’s always been kind. And after everything that happened between us maybe kindness is all I get now. It’s not like I have any idea what he actually wants from me anymore.

“Goodnight, Buttercup.”

“Goodnight.”

Chapter 26

Tom

I’m woken by birdsong. It must be before 6 a.m. considering that my alarm hasn’t gone off yet and it’s still dark outside. For a moment, I just lie there, in that half-sleep haze where everything feels blissfully calm. That moment before to-do lists and the carnage of teenagers packing up tents becomes a reality.

The only sound I hear is from the woodland around us, no shrieking students, no buzzing phones or blaring music. I shut my eyes and relax into the moment. I’ve always loved camping—always loved mornings like this.

This morning feels particularly comfortable. The weight against me is oddly reassuring, as is the steady rhythm of another person breathing next to me.

Wait.

Another person next to me.

And that scent surrounding me, it’s not pine or dew or anything remotely woodland, it’s the soft, sweet smell of vanilla. I know that smell. It’s Claire’s shampoo.

My eyes snap open, and I take in the scene. At some point in the night, I must have shifted towards her, my arm tucked under her head, my chest against her back.

And I’m… spooning her.

I make a concerted effort to breathe evenly. To not move, or think. Then I notice something even worse.

My erection. Pressed right against her.

Jesus Christ.

Why didn’t I volunteer to sleep in the flooded tent?

I try to gently slide my arm out, slowly and subtley. Except the moment I shift, she lets out a little sigh in her sleep, and presses back into me.

Right into me.

Oh no.

I wait a minute, and ponder the available options. My arm is going numb, and I try one more time to extract it. But the attempt is even worse than the previous one, my hand catching on her hair and causing her to jerk awake with a sharp “Ouch.”

“Morning,” I attempt, voice cracking halfway through like a teenager. I haven’t even managed to fully extract my arm and now she’s squashing my forearm.

Maybe I can brazen this out. She turns her head and blinks across at me, still foggy with sleep, blue eyes soft in semi-darkness. Then she suddenly goes completely still, her eyes widen and she looks a lot more awake than a few moments before.

I don’t move. She doesn’t move. We are two statues, frozen in the world’s most awkward accidental spoon.

“Um,” she says finally, very carefully. “Why is your arm under my head?”

“Support.”