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She puts down her fork. “Two minutes and four seconds?”
“He timed it. He’s a maths teacher, precision is sort of his whole thing.” I top up her water to have something to do with my hands. “In my defence, a beautiful woman had just fled my tent at 6 a.m. wearing my boxers. There was a lot to stare wistfully about.”
“I didn’t flee.” I give her a sceptical look, and she rolls her eyes. “Fine, I strategically relocated at speed.”
“You took my clothes.”
“They’re in the wash. You’ll get them back.”
Then somehow we’re just talking about life. She tells me about some ridiculous campaign briefing she sat through last week, and all about her work friend Alicia. I talk about school, about the student who somehow managed to compare Robespierre to Taylor Swift in her French Revolution essay. (It was surprisingly well argued.)
Everything feels easy. No awkward energy of someone trying to scope out your ten-year plan or work out how many skeletons there are in the closet. We both slow down as we finish eating. I really don’t want this evening to end, but it’s getting late and we both had a full weekend.
Eventually, we finish up the meal, and I stand to do the washing up. Watching the sink fill, I try to decide whether asking her to stay is too much too soon.
“You can stay tonight, you know,” I offer before my brain catches up with my mouth.
My words are followed by silence. Long enough that I start second-guessing myself. I didn’t think I was usually a bumbling fool around girls, but something about Claire has me feeling like a teenage boy all over again. Including the intensity of my feelings.
“Yeah, I don’t really feel like going home,” she says.
Relief rushes through me and I try not to grin like an idiot, but it’s too late.
“I’d like for you to stay,” I continue, because in for a penny, in for a pound. “Maybe you could come over another time this week too, or we could do something this weekend.”
“I’d like that.” Her voice is soft. “Both, I mean. Something later this week and the weekend.”
“Tomorrow?” I’m very much done with attempting to play it cool. When she gives me a nod, I fail to hide the joy on my face.
Claire yawns as she rinses the glasses. I potter around the kitchen, stacking plates, wiping the counter.
“Head to bed,” I tell her as she yawns again.
She hesitates, looking at the saucepans that still need cleaning.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ll just finish tidying. Grab anything you want to sleep in, my T-shirts are in the top drawer of the cupboard opposite my bed. I think there’s a new toothbrush somewhere in the bathroom.”
“Thanks.” She gives a soft smile and then pads from the room.
I wait for it to sink in, that Claire is here, in my flat. But I’m not sure it has yet, and I’m not sure when it will. But I’ll take it for the moment.
I hear drawers opening softly down the corridor while I rinse the saucepans. A moment later Claire appears in the doorway again wearing one of my old university T-shirts instead of the hoodie.
“You own approximately seven identical grey shirts,” she informs me.
“That’s efficient living.”
She grins sleepily at me before disappearing again and the sight of her wandering around my flat like she belongs here does something to me.
I scrub the last of the saucepans and leave them out overnight to dry. Turning off the lights one by one I make my way down the corridor. It’s quiet now, except for the hum of the fridge and the faintest hint of the sound of cars outside.
Claire’s already asleep when I get to my room, curled onto her side beneath the duvet and hair spread messily across the pillow.
The sight makes my chest fill with a sudden rush of affection. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and then switch off the lamp, carefully sliding in beside her trying not to wake her.
Claire shifts closer, and I lie there in the dark just thinking about how good this feels.
