Chapter 19
Theo
I wake up with my face mushed into warm skin, my arm flung across a broad chest. My leg is hooked over his, my body wrapped around him like he’s an extra-large human comfort pillow.
The disorientation lasts precisely three seconds.
Then I remember. Finn’s flat. Last night.
He’s sprawled on his back, the pillow above his head, one arm tucked beneath mine. Even asleep, there’s an intensity about him that makes the room seem fuller.
My eyes adjust to the half-light filtering through a bent blind.
Oh yeah, I’m in Finn Lennox’s actual bedroom.
I attempt a reconnaissance mission without disturbing him. The wall behind his bed is painted matte black – bold choice, but unsurprising considering his hair – with a framed 90s Chicago Bulls jersey mounted in the centre. Signed by Rodman and likely worth more than my monthly mortgage payment.
An impressive collection of trainers lines the wall opposite, each pair squeaky clean and arranged by colour. His rugby kit occupies a corner.
The sheets beneath me are crisp linen. No satin or silk or anything that screams ‘I seduce ladies here on the reg’. They smell of fabric softener and him – that addictive combination.
A weighted blanket sits folded at the foot of the bed.
For his nightmares? That night on the sofa, when his panic unlatched something between us, I stayed because I couldn’t leave.
That night was the start of it, and I’ve been catching up ever since.
I fell bit by bit and didn’t feel the drop until now.
My gaze drifts, searching for something to hold on to.
No photos or plants. No pieces of himself or his past on display. Two full bookshelves, though. I squint to make out titles. Looks like sports autobiographies, yes, but also fantasy paperbacks with sprayed edges.
I’m still tracing the way his breath moves under my cheek when his phone’s alarm blares, a jarring electronic jingle that shatters the quiet.
Finn groans, burying his face in the pillow as he fumbles for the snooze button. ‘Hngh. Five more minutes.’
‘No rest for the wicked.’
He pulls me closer and finds the curve of my waist. ‘Morning, List Girl.’
‘Morning, Rugby God.’
‘Don’t call me that.’ He presses his nose into my hair. ‘It’s weird.’
‘You are weird.’
He grins, his breath hot against my ear. ‘But you like it.’
‘Maybe.’
’And I like you here. In my bed, in my shirt, with your hair all witchy.’
‘It’s not witchy!’ I don’t argue further, mostly because I’m suddenly too aware of the way we’re wound into each other and how lovely that feels. I let my eyes roam again.
‘You cataloguing my possessions?’ His voice is sleep-rough and amused.
‘I’m merely assessing the environment. Didn’t really get the chance last night.’
‘And what’s your assessment?’ His mouth curls upward.
‘That you’re surprisingly tidy for someone who oozes so much chaos.’
He draws his fingertips up my back along my spine. ‘Chaos has its place in the world.’
‘And that place is everywhere except your bedroom?’
‘This room is for sleeping.’ He opens one eye, a startling shade of sky blue in the dim light. ‘Usually.’
‘Oi! We did sleep.’
‘Aye, eventually.’ There’s that smug little smirk in his voice again.
I should move. Should peel myself away from him and remember all the reasons why falling for Finn Lennox is career suicide and emotional roulette and a bad, bad idea.
Well. Too damn late. I’ve already started rewriting the calendar. May’s not an end anymore. So I burrow closer. Because there’s nowhere else I want to be.
His thigh is snug between mine, scratchy hair against my calf. He does that thing again where he drags the tip of his nose along my neck.
‘You smell like my sheets now,’ he murmurs.
‘And you smell like last night.’
‘Mhm. That was a good one.’ Finn nuzzles closer, arm banding around my middle. He reaches under the hem of the shirt I’m wearing – his, obviously – and rests his palm against my belly. As if he’s checking I’m still there.
This is nice.
So, so nice.
My foot finds his under the duvet and we toe-wrestle lazily until he cheats and traps mine between both of his.
The alarm rings again.
Finn sighs, reluctantly reaching for his phone to silence it. ‘We have to feed your wee ginger demon.’
‘I know.’ I ease out from his arms, sit up, and push my hair back like I’m about to ask a serious question. ‘But… Didn’t you say something about one morning, two pussies?’
Yeah, I went there. This is what has become of me, courtesy of Finlay Lennox.
‘Aye.’ He beams as he pulls me up. ‘And one busy tongue.’
By the time I’ve come twice and am finally scraping tuna into Elvis’s bowl, my cat’s side-eying me as if I’ve committed high treason.
‘It was twelve hours. You had three hot water bottles.’
He sniffs, circles once, then grudgingly eats, showing me his little bum.
Finn leans in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, hoodie still creased from the car. His hair’s damp from the drizzle, and there’s a faint smear of toothpaste on his collar.
‘Is he always this dramatic?’ Finn asks.
‘He’s used to being the only man in my life. You’re encroaching on his turf.’
‘Tough shit. I’ve got better arms.’
I roll my eyes, but yeah. He’s not wrong.
Finn moves to the cupboard as if he’s lived here for years and reaches for the tin behind the oats without needing to check. Then he measures the leaves with precision, fills the kettle, and wipes yesterday’s tea ring off the counter with the hem of his sleeve.
‘You’ve memorised my kitchen.’
‘Not hard. You’ve got seven things in here.’
He moves through my flat with the same economy he carries on the pitch. As if he’s mapped every corner already.
I sit first on the couch, and he joins me without comment, stretching his legs until they press against the opposite armrest. His sock has a hole at the toe. I see it. He doesn’t bother to hide it.
We folded the sofa bed away ages ago. He’s stayed in my bed since that morning and hasn’t had a single nightmare.
‘This isn’t the worst place I’ve slept,’ he says calmly.
‘I know.’ My heart aches when I think about what happened to him when he was little more than a boy.
It’s only been a few weeks, but I spent every free moment thinking about, writing posts for, or being with Finn. I don’t need months to see what’s going on here.
This is special.
And…I want him to have a home. With me and Elvis.
Rain beats against the glass with quiet insistence, and the radiator ticks once. Finn’s knee presses against mine and stays there. He belongs here. As though he’s always been part of the furniture, the cat, the mugs. My life.
I should say something and be bold enough to ask what happens after the last game in May.
Should tell him I don’t want this to end.
But the words lodge behind my teeth like a popcorn kernel.
Irritating and impossible to spit out without making a scene.
If I say it, I can’t unsay it. And if he doesn’t say it back…
Well. Then we’re both fucked, and not in the good way.
It would break my heart.
So I don’t.
He doesn’t either.
But it’s right here between us.
He rests his hand low on my thigh, fingers curling against the seam of my jeans. His touch makes it hard to remember why we ever called this pretend. I press my heel against his shin just to feel him.
Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I groan and grab it. Text from Charlie:
Hope you’re making the most of your fake love fest. Come to the office asap. We’ve got a game-changer!!
She used exclamation marks, plural. Charlie never uses exclamation marks.
Finn leans over to read it. He stills, jaw working through something unsaid. ‘You think it’s about us?’
‘It’s definitely something,’ I say, already standing. I drain my mug.
Finn sets his down beside mine. ‘Let’s go find out.’
The short drive to Elite Edge takes us through the crawl of Edinburgh’s morning rush. Rain patters against the windshield, blurring the grand Georgian townhouses into a watercolour painting of grey stone.
Finn finds my hand on the gearstick and shoots me a sideways look. ‘You’re overthinking again.’
I keep my eyes on the car ahead. ‘It’s my speciality.’
‘I know. Your forehead gets this little crease right here.’ He taps between my eyebrows.
I hate how he’s so observant and smooth my expression. ‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘It does. And it’s cute.’
Fifteen minutes later, I park my car behind the old factory now co-working space.
The rain’s stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming under a bruised sky. The air smells of wet stone and exhaust fumes.
Auld Reekie.
Our floor is buzzing with mid-morning energy as we step off the lift. Edinburgh’s skyline looms beyond the windows, jagged rooftops and moody clouds threatening rain again. February isn’t Scotland’s prettiest month.
Charlie’s perched on her desk, heels clicking rhythmically against the filing cabinet, phone clutched in her hand as if it’s a winning lottery ticket.
‘You will not believe this.’ She launches herself at us for a group hug.
Finn stiffens for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into it.
‘It’s better than any of us could’ve dreamt. Got the confirmation this morning. Time to make it official.’
Charlie is not a hugger. So whatever this is, it’s huge.
‘Sit.’ She flaps a hand at the client chairs. ‘Before I combust on the spot.’
Finn slouches beside me, knee brushing mine. I focus on the stray thread unravelling from his hoodie sleeve instead of the way his thumb traces circles on my thigh. Having Finn Lennox in my workplace is a bit like bringing a tiger to a tea party. A very hot, cuddly, welcome tiger.