by Lily Morton
He turns serious. “Do it for you and him. Don’t wait for the perfect time because that never comes. Just wait for the time that’s perfect for you.”
“I will.” I nod and then jerk as I hear the sound of Dylan’s key in the front door. On cue, Charlie gives a volley of little yelps which are his version of barking, and then he bursts out of his basket. I hear the scrabble of his little claws on the hall tiles and, muttering a quick goodbye, I stride into the hall. I can hear Dylan cooing at the dog.
“There’s my baby. Who’s a good boy? Who’s your daddy, Charlie Hunnam?”
“Why do you have to make everything so pervy?” I say laughingly, and then I frown. “Good grief, you look like shit, Dylan.”
He snorts out a laugh that evolves into a deep, hacking cough, and I grab him by the hips before putting one hand up to his forehead. “Shit. Darling, you’re burning up. Do you feel worse?”
“A bit,” he says hoarsely and leans into me heavily. “Actually, make that a lot. I feel rough. I had to call a halt to work.”
I look at his face with concern, as it’s a putty colour. “I think you’ve got the cold that was doing the rounds the other week. Bernard had it at work.” I stop as he shoots me a laughing glance. “What?”
He shakes his head, giving a secret smile. “The way you’ve changed,” he murmurs cryptically.
I want to question him, but I bite my lip when I see how tired he looks. “Upstairs,” I say decisively. “Go and have a hot shower or a bath and get your PJs on. Then come down, and I’ll make you some supper.”
“You will?” He looks rather alarmed, which in reality, he should be because I’ve never been able to cook.
“Yes I will, and don’t argue with me.” I slap his arse, and then can’t help but knead the cheeks. He falls against me, and for a second, I press into him, inhaling the familiar warm smell of him. “No.” I take firm step back. “Don’t tempt me, you demon. Now get upstairs and strip.” I pause. “Not in a good way, though. More in the ‘I’m cold, and I need a shower’ way.”
He laughs and then sighs. “Thanks, babe.”
I press a kiss into his hair, ignoring his mumbles of me catching something. Who cares? I certainly don’t if he’s sick.
He vanishes upstairs, followed eagerly by Charlie. The dog had sussed pretty quickly that Dylan is the real source of food around here. He now steadfastly follows him, as if at any given moment a ham is going to drop out of his trouser leg.
I shake my head and wait to hear the bath start. The man will always inexplicably choose baths over showers. I smile and pad into the kitchen. I have a surprise for him. His mum taught me how to cook scrambled eggs one weekend when Dylan went to pick up his brother from the station, and this is my first chance to test my new skill.
I quickly assemble the ingredients, which is a lot easier now that Dylan lives here, and we actually have ingredients to assemble. Twenty minutes later Dylan pads into the kitchen with his sidekick at his heels. He’s dressed in red-checked pyjama bottoms and a long-sleeved grey t-shirt that clings lovingly to the hard muscles on his torso. He looks a little better, although his eyes are still heavy.
He comes to an abrupt standstill. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I raise one eyebrow and put the plate insouciantly on the table. “Making you something to eat.” I’m secretly proud of how good the food looks, with buttery mounds of eggs piled high on triangles of toast.
“You’re making food,” he says faintly. “Have I walked into an alternate reality?”
“Ha, ha! Sit and eat.” He hesitates, and I laugh. “Fuck off. It tastes alright. I tested it first.”
“You did?”
“Of course I did. I love you. I have no real desire to poison you at the moment.”
For some reason that makes him laugh and I smile, carding my hand through the heavy dampness of his hair. “Eat it,” I say softly, and he complies, taking a huge bite which I have to say shows he has balls.
He gives a low groan which makes me shift slightly. “Fuck, that’s good.” He looks at me. “How?”
I shake my head, reaching up to get a big blue-and-white patterned mug from the cupboard. I tear open the sachet of Lemsip and empty it into the cup before switching the kettle on. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Yeah, before this I’d have said that you’d just have to cook for me to do that, but not now.”
I’m absurdly pleased. I have a law degree and have reached career heights that should have been out of reach of the foster child that I’d been, but nothing makes me feel prouder than the pleasure I’ve given him with such a simple thing. “I like looking after you,” I say softly, and he smiles before resuming eating.
The kettle boils, and I fill the cup. I still as I look down at the yellow liquid. Jude’s words come back to me. He was right, and this is my moment.
I push the cup towards Dylan. “Remember this?” I ask.
He looks at the plate and the cup and I see memory stir.
“God yes, when I came round and stayed with you when you were ill.”
“I fell in love with you then,” I say softly, and he stills, love filling his clear green eyes.
“Really?” he asks, suddenly almost shy. “It was then?”
I nod. “We sat in the kitchen, and we talked, and I told you things I didn’t tell anyone. There was just something about that moment that relaxed my guard, and I knew I needed you. I didn’t recognise that it was love at first, but looking back, that was the moment. I knew I felt safe with you, that I could tell you anything and show you my real self. I knew you wouldn’t laugh at me and would look after that knowledge.”
I pause. Then, inhaling deeply, I reach into my pocket and pull out the small, sky-blue box. I set it neatly in front of him. “I want that forever, Dylan. I want to look after you and love you and protect you. I want to laugh at your sassiness, warm your cold feet in bed at night, and never nag you for your endless preoccupation with baths. I want to sit quietly at home reading with you and lie in bed at night talking together. I want to go out on the town with you because I’m so proud to be seen with you, and nothing is ever so good if it isn’t shared with you. Everything I see in my future has you in it, so I need a ring on your finger and one on mine because I want the world to know we belong together.”
The words dry up in my throat as I see a blaze of love in his eyes, the sparks turning them almost golden. “Gabe,” he says, and then pauses, swallowing hard. “Sweetheart, yes!”
“Yes?”
He nods frantically. “Yes to everything you said, darling. I love you so much. If you’d never wanted to marry, I’d still have been happy, but all I ever wanted was for you to be mine in all the ways that you can.” He shakes his head and then says slowly, “I’m not as good with words as you, but I’m good with promises, so my promise is that I will love you until the day I die. Through laughter, through arguments, through snark, grumpiness, and the odd bout of green eye, I will always love you. No matter what happens in the future, I will always be yours.”
I reach out, and with fingers that shake slightly, I slide the ring down, reaching down to press a kiss on it as it nestles against his knuckle. I swallow hard as he does the same, and then I draw him into my arms, feeling the heat and warmth of him. “God, I love you,” I say softly. I try to pull him into me to kiss him, but he shakes his head.
“Gabe, you’ll get my cold.”
I shrug. “I don’t fucking care. If I do, so what? We’ll have it together.”
He laughs, and I take his mouth, kissing him hungrily.
Jude was right. This is our moment. Normality and the everydayness of this moment are the glue that sticks us together. Over the years there may even be a few cracks in us, but even with colds and jealousy and tiredness we’re together, and that’s what’s perfect. Who needs candlelight and roses? We have scrambled eggs and Lemsip.
The Valentine Do-Over
Dylan
I fol
low Gabe’s tall figure into the lift at his office. As the doors close, I lean back against the highly polished interior and grin at him.
“It feels weird to be back here,” I observe.
He sniffs. “I suppose that’s just you repressing the massive amount of regret you feel at leaving my employ.”
“Oh, ginormous,” I agree.
He wrinkles his nose. “It’s not the same without you.”
“In what way?” I ask. I absolutely love my job and my boss, but some days I do feel a yearning to be back by Gabe’s side. Nobody gets me like him, and I’m never as stimulated as when I’m with him.
He shrugs. “It’s just a bit boring,” he says. “No one to bitch at.”
“It’s lovely to be so memorable for such a wonderful reason.” He grins at me, and I shake my head. “And if you’re telling me that you don’t bitch at Alistair, I’m going to be calling you a liar, my dearest.”
He smiles. “Of course, I do. I may be a reformed man, but I’m not dead.”
“Gabe, I’m unsure in what way you’ve reformed beyond the lack of pedestrians wandering through your bedroom and the fact that you don’t order me to get you a taxi at four in the morning anymore.”
He ignores me. Something he’s adept at.
“Everything is just so calm,” he says in a disgruntled fashion. “So peaceful. The coffee is spot-on.” I roll my eyes, and he ignores that too. “Everything is perfect.”
“I’m a little offended. It was perfect when I worked here.”
He grins at me, and my heart does a little pitter-pat. “Darling, it was far from perfect, but it was never ever boring.”
I smile at him and hook my finger in his belt to draw him to me. “I’ll take that,” I say, kissing him and hearing the pleased hum as he kisses me back. It quickly intensifies, and he’s just pushed me against the wall in a satisfactorily bossy manner when the lift pings.
He draws back, kissing me lightly on the nose and chuckling as it makes my eyes cross. “Let’s shelve that,” he says. “I’ve got plans.”
“Ah yes, Valentine’s Day,” I say as the doors open, and I follow him out. “Going to tell me what we’re doing?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, go on,” I coax. “I’m fine with anything unless it’s you breaking your arm like last year. The casualty department wasn’t the most romantic place to spend the evening. Or how about the fight that broke out in the restaurant you booked the year before that? The blood and swearing didn’t do a whole lot for ambience.”
“Fucking Valentine’s Day,” he mutters. “I swear we’re cursed.” He squares his shoulders. “But this year is our year,” he says fervently, as though we’re going into battle.
It makes me want to kiss him again because he’s so adorable. However, I decide to just wind him up. It’s our thing. “Oh, are you asking Ollie again? Because I have to say that he put a bit of a crimp in it three years ago.”
He stops dead and glares at me. “What is our agreement, Dylan?” he demands.
I bite my lip to hide my smile. “We never mention the aborted threesome,” I say dutifully. “It never happened. We never split up. I know nothing.”
“That’s right,” he says, bopping me on the nose.
He heads out of the building and I follow, his coattails flapping as he serenely ignores the two secretaries who flatten themselves into an alcove. I wink at them. Ah, happy memories.
Gabe’s car is waiting for him. Of course it is. Everything in his life seems to be on standby, ready to leap to his aid. I wonder whether the same could be said about me. I snort. Definitely not.
Gabe slides into the car, and I throw my rucksack in, preparing to follow him. There’s a rustle and crackle, and Gabe’s aggrieved voice sounds out. “Fucking hell, Dylan, you’ve crushed your flowers.”
I stick my head into the car and see a huge bouquet of red roses. There are easily three dozen of them, and their rich perfume is heady in the vehicle. However, they’re also now looking somewhat bedraggled.
“Oh my God,” I say, touched to the heart of me. “Did you buy me roses?”
He has a flush of embarrassment on his face. “Yes, and you’ve very neatly decapitated them.”
I throw myself at him, hugging him tightly and kissing him. I pull back. “Thank you so much. I love them.”
“There’s not much left of them,” he says gloomily.
“There are loads left.” I nudge him. “Anyway, flowers are out at the moment. Greenery has made a big comeback.”
“Really?” he says wryly, a smile tugging at his full lips.
“Oh, yes. Petals are so passé these days.” I pick the bouquet up. “The real gems are the— Ouch, motherfucker,” I mutter as one pricks me. “The real gems are the leaves,” I finish.
“Dylan, stop talking,” he advises me.
I smile at him, and after saying hello to the driver, I eye the holdall and two suit bags that are set neatly on the seat. “Can I just—?”
“No,” he says succinctly. “You cannot.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say. I might have been asking if we could stop for some yoghurt.”
He blows a raspberry. “You hate yoghurt. You say it’s like sour milk.”
“I know it’s healthy,” I say earnestly. “But I still can’t get on with it.”
“It’s a dairy product. Not an ageing relative.”
I reach over and pinch him. “I don’t think romance is improved by sarcasm.”
He grins and draws me to his side, kissing my hair. I inhale his scent of spicy oranges and feel myself fully relax. It’s the scent of Gabe and home, safety and love.
“It is in our family,” he says. He kisses my smile and sits back. “Tell me about your day,” he commands.
So I do. As the driver negotiates the traffic, I tell Gabe about the funny things that have happened and that I store up for him, and he listens as raptly as if I were the most interesting person in the world. Then I confide in him a couple of problems I can see on the horizon. I’ve been dying to do it all day. He listens intently and throws in a few ideas. And here I can really see the difference with him. He’s fully invested in me and our life. I know that I come before everything with Gabe, and when we’re together I have his full attention. I also know that I’ll end up taking his advice, not because he forces it on me, but because he’s incredibly wise, and the advice he gives me will always have my wellbeing and happiness at its heart. Those are Gabe’s priorities now.
I rest my head on his shoulder, listening to his deep drawl. I love him so much. It gets deeper as time passes. Richer and fuller, like it’s slowly expanding to fill my whole heart and body. He sometimes makes me ragey, but he always makes me happy. I feel alive with him, as trite as that sounds.
The car slows, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I look curiously out of the window. We’re in Kensington and we’ve stopped in front of a tall building with a dark blue door. A golden glow lights the building’s signage.
“A banya?” I ask, turning to Gabe. “Isn’t that a Russian spa?”
He lifts my hand, dropping a quick kiss on the back of it. “I thought you could do with a good spa treatment. You’ve been stressed lately and having headaches. You can have a massage and a sauna, and I can have some vodka.”
I stare at him. “You’re not having any treatments?”
“No,” he says patiently. “Weren’t you listening when I spoke about the vodka?”
“Oh no,” I say, getting out of the car. “If I’m having a treatment, so are you.”
He steps out of the car looking as urbane as ever. “I don’t like people fiddling with me.”
I open my eyes as wide as they’ll go. “Gabe, three-quarters of London and most of the Home Counties have fiddled with you.”
He rolls his eyes. “You vastly overestimate my sexual process.”
“I don’t think I do.” I hug him, feeling the heat of his lean body against mine. “Oh, go on,” I say. “Go
on. Go on. Go on.”
“You sound like Mrs Doyle in Father Ted,” he informs me. “That is not going to get you laid tonight.”
“She was a fascinating woman.” I poke him in his side. “Go on. Have a sauna too.”
He gives a put-upon sigh. “Okay, but then I get vodka.”
“Yes, dear,” I say patiently, following him into the spa.
It’s lovely inside and full of the scent of eucalyptus. Soft music plays, and the whitewashed walls and woodwork and greenery give it a very tranquil and zen feel.
We’re greeted by a burly, bearded man who introduces himself as Alex and we follow him to a changing room where two luxurious white robes wait for us. I wink at Gabe as I strip off and put my clothes in the locker provided before climbing into the swim shorts he hands me from the bag.
“Think we can nick the robes?” I ask, purely for the doubletake he does.
“No,” he says in a horrified voice. “I do not.”
“Never done that before?”
“No. I’m afraid I’ve led a very dull life, Dylan. If I wanted a bathrobe, I bought one.”
“Or got your assistant to buy you one,” I remind him.
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, that’s still engraved on my brain. There was absolutely nothing about me that even remotely suggested that I wanted a Buzz Lightyear towelling dressing gown.”
“Then you should have been more specific,” I say sweetly. “It was a life lesson.”
“It was a humorous life lesson,” he corrects me. “Or at least you thought so. I seem to recall you laughing like a drain for a few hours that would have been better spent in doing work.”
I ignore the sarcasm and eye him appreciatively. He looks as sexy as ever, even in just a simple white robe. It brings out the olive tone in his skin and that dark wavy hair.
He smiles at me. “Like what you see?”
I come closer and steal a kiss. “Especially when it’s all mine.”
“Every millimetre,” he informs me and immediately looks slightly abashed, as if he’s going to be arrested for crimes towards sentimentality.
