But when I come back into the bedroom, all he’s managed to do is climb into his underpants and pass out on the bed. On my side! He’s snuggled down on his side on top of the duvet and he’s snoring. There’s a blanket box on the landing, and inside is a beautiful if slightly musty hand-sewn quilt. I drape it over him and make a mental note to either get it dry cleaned, or do some online blanket shopping at some point. Then I creep over to the dresser, find a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and change into them as quietly as I can.
Owen’s dead to the world right now, and there’s something so thrilling about knowing he’s asleep in my bed. That I sated him so wholly he passed out. Lost his fight with consciousness. Couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Downstairs, I fire up the laptop, chuck another Stormio pod in the coffee machine, and with my music’s volume turned down, I work on the last fewquiz rounds. I don’t google the history questions, can’t bring myself to, but I do make the wild card round national potato dishes from around the world.
It’s three a.m. when I return upstairs. Owen’s still there, because of course he is. I’ve been keeping an ear out for him, wondering whether he’ll wake up and panic about where he is. The dusty blanket’s in a heap on the floor next to the bed, and Owen has crawled under the covers. I fold the quilt and place it on the dresser stool, and then I slide into bed next to him.
It’s not the side I sleep on, and I have to put on my Bluetooth headband slash sleep mask slash earphones to block out Owen’s snoring. I have to be at the training grounds for nine, giving me a maximum of five hours sleep if I drift off now . . .
Four and a half hours sleep . . .
Four hours and ten minutes . . .
But maybe I’m not trying very hard. Because Owen Bosley is in my bed. Next to me. He still has residue of my dried cum on his unwashed chest.
An orange glow from the street lamp seeps in through the window. It caresses Owen’s brow and the non-hairy part of his cheek, and I stare at it like the creeper I am until suddenly the sun is up and my alarm is bleeping.
25
Thursday 17th April 2025
Owen
I jolt up in bed, torn from an intense and strange dream. It’s fading fast, and I don’t remember any details except that it was one of those dreams you’re disappointed to wake from. I’m not wearing pyjamas, in fact, I’m only in pants—weird—and I can’t seem to find my slippers. I must have left them downstairs again. I hate walking across that stone floor with bare feet. Even if it is almost summer, it’s always freezing.
A half yawn, half groan leaves my throat as I take in my bedroom, pre-readying myself for getting out of bed. Always the hardest part of any day. My eyes fall to the dressing table with . . . the girls’ baby blanket, the one weused to drape over them when they were feeling poorly, folded up on the pouffe. How did that get there?
There’s a book on the nightstand that I don’t remember buying, and a suit jacket hanging on the wardrobe door that’s definitely not mine. And there’s a fucking flatscreen TV above the drawers, and . . .
Holy fuck! I don’t live here any more.
Suddenly other details come crashing into clarity, as though they’re being thrown at me—the other trinkets and photos that don’t belong to me, the smell of bacon frying and fresh coffee brewing, the sound of a radio playing. I can’t tell what station, but an indistinct feminine voice is chattering away, and someone is pottering around downstairs. Who I first assumed was Daisy, is in fact . . .
Mathias Jones.
Oh my god, I fell asleep.
And last night . . . oh my god, last night.
I run a hand over my stomach at the memory of Mathias on top of me, spraying me with his orgasm. Damn, it wasn’t a dream. It really fucking happened.
I find my clothes, claw my way into them, and scramble downstairs.
The radio isn’t a radio at all, but the TV with the volume turned down low. On it, an American woman is doing a YouTube review of . . . some kind of fancy as heck blanket. Okay, sure, whatever floats his boat, I guess.
“Wild Card, good morning.” I meet him in the kitchen. “I slept over. I’m so sorry.”
He stops plating up whatever he’s plating and turns to me. Smiles. It’s genuine and warm and a little shy, and I physically feel my heart tripping over itself. “I was gonna bring it up to you. I’ve already eaten mine.” He checks his watch. “Have to be at the grounds in—shit, about thirty minutes. I’d better go.”
Breakfast is lean bacon medallions, scrambled egg, half an avocado, and buttered brown toast with a glass of OJ and a freshly brewed coffee. From a coffee press, not from his posh machine. He’s arranged it artfully on the dish,like something I’d ask Tyler to do for presentation reasons but never bother with myself.
I get the distinct feeling Mathias is trying to impress me, or thank me, or maybe this is how he starts every morning.
“Thanks for breakfast, by the way. You didn’t have to.” I take my plate to the table. “I haven’t had breakfast made for me since . . . the Father’s Day before covid.”
Mathias laughs as though I’m joking, then instantly sobers when he sees I’m serious. “You haven’t been on holiday or to a hotel for five years?”
“Nope. No time.” I’m breezy as I dismiss it, but I only now realise how sad it all sounds. How tragic it makes me seem. “Pub’s open seven days a week. I’ve got too much to do, too much to pay for.”
