9. Bat #3
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.
Reality crashed back in—a cymbal smash right behind my skull.
What the hell was I doing?
When I gave Brad his body back—and I had to give it back, very, very soon—he’d wake up confused. Maybe he’d remember fragments. Maybe he wouldn’t. But either way, Bad Brad would return, and he’d crush whatever tiny, fragile thing I’d built here.
Charlie would be hurt. Again.
Because of me.
Because I was selfish and stupid and so desperately lonely that I’d hijacked someone’s body just to have a conversation. Just to feel warm skin and taste tea and stand close to someone who smelled like summer fruit.
“I should shower,” I blurted.
Charlie blinked. The spell broke. “Oh. Right.”
Was that disappointment crossing his face?
My throat tightened.
“By the way, we should use the bathroom at the end of the second-floor corridor,” I added quickly. “The one with the blue tiles. Hot water’s best there.”
And it’s the least haunted, by far. Much, much safer than the first-floor bathroom, unless you fancy sharing a tub with the woman who drowned there.
“Alright. Thanks.” Charlie pushed off from the counter, creating more distance between us.
Good. Distance was good. Distance was necessary.
“No,” I said. “Thank you.”
He frowned, glasses slipping down his nose—those gold wire rims catching the kitchen light. “For what?”
I caught myself. Blinked.
For this moment. For talking to me. For being kind to a complete dickhead. For existing in this house and making me feel something other than endless, crushing boredom. For smelling like summer fruits. For reminding me what it felt like to be alive.
“For the tea,” I said. “Of course.”
Charlie wrinkled his nose. “Umm… okay. Anytime.”
He looked at me like I’d grown a second head. Fair enough.
I forced Brad’s legs to move. One foot in front of the other. Away from Charlie, away from that gorgeous, confused face and those perfect lips.
Every step hurt. I desperately wanted to turn Brad’s body around. To cross back to Charlie, crowd him against the cabinet, test out exactly how much these muscular arms could lift. Wrap those long legs around Brad’s waist and—
Stop it.
I marched up the stairs. Down the corridor. Into Brad’s assigned bedroom.
The door shut behind me with a soft click.
I released my hold on Brad’s consciousness. Let it snap back like a rubber band.
His body crumpled onto the bed. Out cold.
He’d wake up thinking he’d taken a nap. Hopefully, the guilt would keep him quiet about the missing time. Hopefully, he’d be too confused to mention anything to Charlie.
Hopefully.
I floated above Brad’s sleeping form. Watched his chest rise and fall with living breath.
My fingers—my fingers—drifted to my mouth. The phantom sensation of lips I’d never kiss, pressed against lips I’d never taste.
Charlie’s lips. Pink and perfect and forever out of reach.
Maybe existing like this was worse than not existing at all.