Promised

It’s quiet. I can hear my mind ticking over with endless hopeful thoughts. And I think I might hear his, too, but there’s an invisible strain now, and this invisible strain between us is far outweighing the great things that have come before. His heart is beating steadily under my ear, and the odd squeeze of his hand around mine is a gesture of comfort, but I’m never going to be able to sleep, even though my body is exhausted and my brain drained.

Miller suddenly shifts, and I’m removed from his chest and positioned neatly to the side. ‘Stay here,’ he whispers, kissing my forehead before removing his na**d body from the bed and slipping his shorts on. He leaves the room, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as the door closes quietly behind him. It has to be the early hours of the morning. What is he doing? The absence of the awkward silence should be making me feel better. But it doesn’t. I’m nude, sore between the thighs, and I’m tucked up neatly in a stranger’s bed, but I can do no more than lie back and stare up at the ceiling with only my unwelcome thoughts to keep me company. He makes me feel wonderful and alive, and in the next breath, awkward and an inconvenience.

I’m not sure how long I’m there, but when I hear a few bangs and definitely a polite curse, I can stay no more. I shuffle to the edge of the bed, taking the sheet with me, and pad across the bedroom, gingerly letting myself into the corridor and wandering quietly towards the source of the commotion. The noises and muttered curses get clearer and clearer until I’m standing in the doorway of the kitchen looking at Miller wiping down the fridge’s mirrored doors.

What should be making me stagger in disbelief is Miller’s frantic hand swirling a cloth over the surface, but it’s the muscles of his back, all rippling and sharp, that have my breath catching and my hand darting out to the door frame to steady myself. He can’t be real. He’s a hallucination – a dream or a mirage. I would be sure of this, if I wasn’t so . . . broken in.

‘Fucking mess!’ he hisses to himself, plunging his hand into a bucket of soapy water and wringing the cloth out. ‘What the f**k was I thinking? Fuck!’ He slaps the cloth on the mirrored doors again, continuing to curse and rub frantically.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask quietly, smiling like crazy on the inside. Miller likes everything just like him; perfect.

He swings round, surprised but scowling. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ The cloth gets thrown viciously into the bucket. ‘You should be resting.’

My sheet gets pulled in closer, like I’m using it as a protective shield. He’s mad, but is he mad with me or with the smeared mirror of the fridge? I start backing away, a little wary.

‘Fuck.’ He hangs his head in shame, shaking it a little and ruffling his dark mop with a frustrated swipe of his hand. ‘Please, forgive me.’ His eyes lift and gush with genuine regret. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was wrong of me.’

‘Yes, it was,’ I agree. ‘I’m not here to be snapped at.’

‘It’s just . . .’ He looks at the fridge and clenches his eyes shut, like it hurts him to see the smears. Then he sighs and walks forward, holding his hands out, silently asking my permission to touch me. Stupidly or not, I nod, and he visibly relaxes. He wastes no time and crowds me, pulling me close and sinking his nose into my damp hair. The comfort it gives me can’t be ignored. When he said that he wouldn’t sleep, he really meant it. He didn’t look at the mess when I hinted at it, but clearly it was playing on his mind, tormenting him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats, kissing my hair.

‘You don’t like mess.’ I don’t ask it as a question because it’s painfully clear, and I’m not giving him the opportunity to insult me by denying it.

‘I’m house proud,’ he counters, turning me and pushing me back towards the bedroom.

Every step we take, I’m reminded of my palatial surroundings. ‘Don’t you have a cleaner?’ I ask, thinking a businessman who lives in a place like this, dresses like Miller and drives a prestigious car, would at least have a housekeeper.

‘No.’ I’m unwrapped from the sheet and lifted into bed. ‘I like doing it myself.’

‘You like cleaning?’ I blurt, shocked. He really can’t be real.

His lips tip at the corners, making me feel a whole lot better about the events, words and feelings that have come after our intimacies. ‘I wouldn’t say I like it.’ He slips in beside me and pulls me in, tangling our na**d legs. ‘I suppose you could call me a domestic god.’

I’m smiling now, too, and my hand is having a field day with free access to his bare chest. ‘I never would’ve thought it,’ I muse.

‘You should try to stop thinking too much. People overthink things, making them bigger deals than they actually are.’ He speaks softly, almost nonchalantly, but there’s more meaning to those words, I know there is.

‘Like what?’

‘Nothing specific.’ He pecks the top of my head. ‘I was just being general.’

He wasn’t being general at all, but I say no more. His reversed mood has calmed my earlier unease, and I’m letting the security of his body encasing me ease me into a peaceful slumber. It’s not long before my eyes slowly close and the last sound I hear is Miller humming something hypnotising and soft in my ear.

In a panic, my eyes snap open and I bolt upright in bed. It’s completely dark. Brushing my wild hair from my face, I take a few moments to backtrack and it all comes back to me . . . or was I dreaming?