Page 26 of The Meet Queue-t
“Just trying to make sure we’re not arrested.”
I lean against his shoulder. “I don’t think sleeping in a public place is a crime. And I’m prepared to find out.”
“I’ve fed you so much coffee. How are you still sleepy?”
“How are younotasleep? Aren’t you about a million years old?”
That earns me a prod in the cheek, and I grin up at him. While I am joking about taking a nap in this cute little café—probably—I’m not joking about being tired enough to risk it. It’s just past mid-morning, and all the caffeine in my system has done is make me crash out.
But Oliver has other plans for us. After finishing the remainder of his double espresso, he drags me around the Tate Modern so we can quietly abuse all the modern art (why is it so weird, anyway?). Then he whisks me past the Globe, and finally we find ourselves in the McDonald’s just outside King’s Cross. There, we pick at a burger and fries and make up wildly unrealistic stories about the people who pass us by. I tell him about Thelma and her life advice. He tells me a bit about his childhood in rural Yorkshire.
Once we get on the train, though, our conversation dries up. Not because we don’t want to talk, but because the possibility of sleep is finally on the table, and neither of us can resist. We curl up into each other, and I think it takes me about five seconds to sink into dreamland.
I wake up a disorienting amount of time later with drool on my chin. The train is slowing, and Oliver’s hand is on my shoulder. “We’re here,” he says, his bag already over his shoulder.
Barely functional, I allow him to take my hand and lead me off the train and through the fog of timeand space to reality again. The afternoon air bites my cheeks as we emerge onto a street. Directly opposite is an adorable Tudor-style bus stop, where two teenagers share a cigarette, and behind that is what I think might just be the ancient city walls.
I scrub my eyes to wipe the grit away, then wipe underneath them belatedly to catch any smeared mascara.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Like I woke up in a different dimension.” I run a hand through my hair and squint at our surroundings again. “I’m still not convinced I’m in the right one. This is York, right?”
“No,” he deadpans. “We’re in Leeds.” When I mock glare at him, he cracks a smile. “I live about a twenty-minute walk away. Do you want me to call a taxi?”
I consider that for a second, then shake my head. “A walk should wake me up.”
“You know, we do have tomorrow too,” he says. “And the next day. It’s fine if we get back to mine and all we do is sleep.”
Technically yes, he’s right. That would be fine. And honestly, it would be kind of cute. There’s something weirdly wholesome aboutjustsleeping with someone. But I only have this weekend with him. We haven’t mentioned what comes after—if there even is an after.
If this is all I get, I don’t want to waste a moment of it.
“I can sleep when I’m dead,” I say, and gesture for him to lead the way. “Let’s go.”
We end up walking along the ancient walls almost the entire way, and when we get there, I’m not surprised to find his house overlooks those very same walls.
“Some view, huh,” I say as he unlocks his front door.
“It’s why I chose it.”
“That doesn’t come as a shock.” I follow him inside, kicking off my shoes as I see him do the same. It’s surprisingly nice—not a mansion by any means, but there’s an open-plan kitchen and living room, with another small door leading to a downstairs bathroom. The floor is the kind of glossy wood I would skate over on my socks if I were here with a friend and not . . . Whatever Oliver is.
I turn in the middle of the room to find Oliver just standing there, watching me, his bag slipping from his hand to the floor, his eyes molten.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, my smile drooping. “I just—”
“Tessa,” he says, dropping the bag fully and coming to stand in front of me, cupping my face in his hands. So serious, intent on whatever he’s thinking.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
“Okay.” I breathe the word, and he meets it with his breath, his mouth. Unlike at the train station, where we were still learning each other, this is deeper, needier. His hand comes up to trail across my jaw, and no part of my body is thinking about sleep now. I’m awake, alive, illuminated. We kiss and kiss and kiss until we’re both dizzy with it, until I stumble backwards. He follows me, his mouth chasing mine, and the back of my knees hitthe arm of his sofa. They buckle, and I just have time to gasp in alarm as I lose my balance, tumbling back on the cushions.
A peal of laughter escapes me as Oliver stands beside the arm, looking down at me, perplexed. His glasses slide down his nose.
I sit up and grab his jumper, and tug him down after me. He catches himself awkwardly, one hand braced against the seat beside my head. His body covers mine.
