Chapter 15
Fifteen
never turn down a midnight snack
Dylan
‘You really don’t sleep, do you?’ I ask Max. It must be at least two in the morning, but my endless hydration caught up with
me and woke me up, and on my trip to the bathroom I find Max still awake, illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop, knees
up under his duvet, laptop on his chest, a spoon in one hand and a mug in the other.
He clears his throat before speaking. ‘Not really.’ He sits upright, setting his mug and laptop on the mattress beside him.
‘Cute pyjamas.’
My matching lemon-yellow set looks green in this light. ‘Wish I could say the same for you.’
‘Hey,’ he chastises, scratching his bare chest, and I’m grateful his bottom half is hidden under the duvet at least. ‘I’m
still following your clothing rules. You walked into my bedroom.’
‘What are you doing this late?’
‘Work.’ He turns his laptop towards me and I catch a blurry shot from coasteering. ‘Would you believe me if I told you that
preparing this video seventeen hours before it’s set to go up is early for me?’
‘But you’re always so organised,’ I say flatly, and he lets out a laugh that spills over me like warm water. It makes me want to tease him more, just to get him to laugh like that again. ‘Is it the first video of the trip?’
He pulls the laptop back on to his chest, tapping a few times on the trackpad. ‘Yeah. It covers the first week. It’s basically
done. I’ll watch it through one more time tomorrow morning with fresh eyes and then I’ll schedule it.’
‘Cool,’ I say, and his mouth twitches. I move a little closer to the bed, unfolded into a small double mattress. ‘I’ve never
even seen the sofa bed out before.’
‘Because I put it away each morning so you don’t yell at me.’
‘I wouldn’t yell at you.’
‘Don’t underestimate my ability to provoke uncharacteristic reactions from people.’ He eyes me intently and then adds, ‘I
put the bed away because I’m a good roommate.’ He pauses and picks up the mug he’d set down. ‘Well. Good enough.’
I don’t point out that he leaves a trail of destruction in his wake on a daily basis, but he is, admittedly, significantly better than he was in our first day or two. He shoves most of his stuff to the far end of the living room instead
of leaving it in my path, and he washes up his dirty glasses, and he puts the toilet seat down at least twenty-five per cent
of the time. Baby steps.
‘I understand that not everyone lives the way I do,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to chill out a little.’
He takes a spoonful of whatever’s in the mug, which I wouldn’t personally do on my own bed for fear of making a mess, and asks, ‘How’s that going for you?’
‘Fine.’ I perch on the edge of the bed, immediately met with an uncomfortable layer of foam. ‘Oh my god, this is barely a
mattress.’
‘It’s all right,’ he insists, taking another spoonful.
A spring pokes my bum when I move. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?’
He shrugs. ‘There’s nothing you can do. I told you before, my sleep’s bad regardless.’
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, and it’s quiet for a few moments apart from Max tapping his trackpad. ‘No, it’s not fair–you need a better night’s sleep.’
He lets out a groan. ‘Is this about the cancer thing?’
‘No Max, it’s not about the cancer thing, it’s about the fact I feel awful for letting you suffer on this. I’m sleeping out here tonight. You go in the bedroom. We’ll
alternate from now on.’
‘I said it’s fine.’
‘And I’m saying it’s not.’ Whenever I argue back, he looks at me like he’s greedy for it, and he’s doing it now, leaning forward
like he can’t get enough. ‘I didn’t realise it was this bad. And you lied about needing to walk around at night to tire yourself
out, didn’t you? Because I’ve not once heard you go outside at night since we’ve been here.’ I gesture behind me. ‘And I’d
know if you had. These walls are thin.’
‘Trust me,’ he says in a low, thick voice. ‘I know.’ My next words catch in my throat. Has he heard—no. He can’t have. He
saves me from spiralling by saying firmly, ‘You’re not sleeping on this, Dylan.’
‘You’re clearly not sleeping on it either.’ God, he’s not going to budge and I’m going to spend the next few weeks knowing he’s sleeping
on a mattress that feels like it’s been lined with rocks while I’ve been hogging the bed he was invited to sleep on. He eats another spoonful while my brain goes a mile a minute, and then I swallow hard and say something
I’m sure I may come to regret. ‘If you refuse to alternate, then share with me.’
‘I’ll let you go back three seconds and revoke that offer, if you want.’
‘No.’ This is it. This has to be the solution. ‘If you promise to keep all extremities to yourself, we can share.’
‘Extremities?’ His voice is amused, but his gaze is careful as he looks at me. ‘You’re serious?’
The mattress is so thin he can probably feel my raging pulse. ‘I’m serious.’
‘If you wanted to sleep with me, you could’ve just asked.’
‘Max. Please don’t be weird about this.’
‘Sure. I’ll come to bed with you, Tiny.’ After a few loaded seconds, he offers me his mug and one of his whiplash-inducing subject changes. ‘Do you want some brownie? I made it in the microwave. It’s the ultimate culinary experience.’
‘No thanks. I’ve already brushed my teeth.’
The mattress squeaks as he shifts position. ‘This might be a wild idea, but you could always . . . brush them again.’ His
voice comes out in that low teasing tone he seems to reserve solely for me, and I want to be irritated by it, but having something
of my own from someone who revels in existing for the entire world to see? It feels significant, somehow.
I catch a whiff of the mug’s contents and my resolve crumbles. I take it from him, scoop up a spoonful, and when molten chocolate
hits my tongue, I let out an entirely inappropriate noise that makes me close my eyes; half in pleasure, half in embarrassment.
When I open them, he’s looking at me, jaw clenched. I move the mug back in his direction, but he doesn’t take it.
‘Have some more,’ he commands, watching me with a combination of rapt eagerness and intense satisfaction as I take another
bite.
Last year’s Dylan would’ve never known the simple joy of a late-night mug brownie. It’s a bigger comfort than I expect, knowing
I’m not missing out anymore.
‘I used to bake at one of my old jobs, you know,’ I tell him.
‘Really?’ He cocks his head. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘I loved getting in early and prepping everything. Honestly, I kind of wish I did more baking at the coffee shop, but we get
all our food sent in from suppliers.’
I think about those quiet mornings alone in the kitchen making brownies and cupcakes, playing music on the speakers, knowing
exact quantities and timings off the top of my head. It’s a very specific type of order that looks like chaos. Maybe that’s why I liked it. It fulfilled the human instinct to be messy; the one I keep locked away as much
as I can.
‘Maybe you could look into doing it again in your next job,’ he suggests.
I shake my head. My next job is my grad scheme. It has to be. Now is not the time for this conversation, so I pass the mug back to him and ask, ‘Where did you even get the ingredients?’
‘I have friends in high places.’
He digs in again, spoon scraping the bottom of the mug. I’ve seen him at all times of day, but this two-a.m. version is new:
hair rumpled, the shadows of his ferocious bone structure even more pronounced in this light. When he licks the spoon, I’m
abruptly struck by images of his tongue doing other things in other places, and it makes me feel hot all over.
Despite probably being the world’s most hydrated woman, I go to the sink to fill a glass. I down the water, looking out the
window into the nothingness of the dark, glad at least the light inside is low enough that Max can’t see my reddened cheeks.
‘My mum went through a health-food phase,’ he says, the creak of the sofa frame announcing he’s got to his feet. ‘I mean,
she’s kind of still in it, honestly. Ava and I had to buy our own snacks when we were younger if we didn’t want, like, cacao
nibs and coconut flakes. But we always had ingredients for mug brownies, so that’s what we’d make.’
He leans around me to set the empty mug in the sink, warmth radiating off the chest lining up against my back, his arm grazing
mine in a fizz of electricity. It’s only when he turns the tap on to fill the mug that I step out of his way.
‘I’m sorry to tell you this,’ I force my voice to be level, pressing my side against the counter, ‘but you’ve created a monster.
I’ll be begging for that brownie every day from now on.’
‘I’d never make you beg, Dylan.’ He lets out a soft laugh as he turns off the tap, leaving the mug to soak, before he swivels
and leans against the sink, arms folded across his chest, tattoos bold against the ghostly pallor of his skin. ‘You can still
take back the bed offer, by the way.’
‘Nope.’ I might regret it, but I won’t retract it now. I try a different tactic, crossing my arms too, my eyes adjusting to
the low light cast from his laptop. ‘If you’re scared of waking up in the same woman’s bed multiple mornings in a row, you
can just say so.’
The slow smile that spreads across his face makes him look dangerous. Like the kind of person you avoid at this time of night. ‘I’m not the one who’s panicking about it. But sure. Maybe that’s it.’
The tap drips once into his mug with a plink. ‘Did someone break your heart once? And since then you’ve been . . . you?’
His voice is low. ‘My heart’s done things a lot more dramatic than break.’
The sigh I let out does nothing to ease the tension building in my ribcage. ‘Sometimes, you’re so cryptic for no reason.’
He frowns at me for a second. Before I can stop him, he’s leaned forward and is swiping his thumb just below my bottom lip,
like he’s wiping chocolate away. My traitorous, tired, frustrated brain whispers, A little higher, Max.