17. Jonathan

I had no idea when I'd finally drifted off, but we'd talked. Just small talk fitting the mood—two souls under a duvet. My always-cold feet found themselves tucked up against warm legs. It wasn't particularly comfortable: for someone like me, who had never, in my fifty-one years, shared a bed with another human being, it was an entirely new experience.

I had to admit that out loud, full of shame. I'd had sexual encounters, but none involved any kind of sharing of bed space. Nor had it ever involved sleep. It always ended with me leaving, feeling incredibly ashamed about what I'd done.

I wasn't normal. Sex was normal. Desire was normal. Wanting to engage in sexual activity with other human beings was perfectly acceptable. I just didn't feel comfortable with it at all. It was odd and awful and embarrassing, but the truth was, I wasn't a confident sexual partner because I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing or who I was supposed to be.

"I have…completed the act. And yes, of course, it was enjoyable. An orgasm always is, but the lead-up and…"

"The aftermath," they'd filled in, speaking against my shoulder. I liked having them this close. I'd tucked their arm closer to my chest, my palm growing damp from holding theirs. I didn't care. All I cared about was them not leaving. They'd promised they wouldn't, and I believed them.

"Sometimes the aftermath is better than the actual act," they'd said. "When you just lie and hold each other. That feeling of being so incredibly close to someone else—it's my favourite feeling in the whole world."

I should have admitted that in principle I had no idea what they were talking about. But I nodded, because I think I had an inkling. It was something like what we had here, warm, a little sweaty, close, and being held by another person.

It was wonderful.

Which was why I woke up with my chest screaming in pain, my breath barely able to squeeze air up from my lungs as I cried out in fear. Their skin was no longer against mine—not that I was in any state to remember the night before, how I'd fallen asleep. It was just the usual catastrophic anxiety paralysing me.

I knew it was irrational panic, the extreme way my body reacted to my lack of sleep and being yanked out of its rest through nothing but adrenaline. I was overtired. I was not dying. I am not dying.

My feet thumped to the floor as I tried to get myself up into a sitting position, my arms tightly wound around my chest.

Head between my knees, I tried to breathe, counting out loud through stifled huffs of air. There were techniques, things I could do to calm myself down. A cool cloth on my neck. I usually stumbled into the bathroom and splashed water on my face, but I was so disorientated I didn't even know which way the bathroom was. The London lights twinkling hurt my eyes to the point I felt spaced out, dizzy, that horrible nausea mixing with faintness, every part of my body tightening in agony.

"Hey."

Arms came around me, hands holding on to me, too much movement behind me making the mattress bounce. I was on a ship going down. I was no good with ships. I was no good with travelling.

A shushing sound in my ear as the waves crashed over me, and then legs on either side, arms around my chest, a human lifesaver, lips being pressed to my shoulder.

I liked that…or I thought I did.

More strange, strangled sounds. I needed out. I needed…

"Shhhh. I'm right here."

"Help me," I wheezed. I had no idea what I was asking of them, but they just held on, rocked me gently side to side, their legs against my thighs so that I was almost sitting on their lap.

Being held.

"You're fine, Jonny. You're safe. You told me, remember? You get these big anxiety attacks when you wake up, a common side effect from all those sleeping tablets."

Had I told them that? Apparently so.

"Where do you keep your meds? You said you have another tablet you take to help you go back to sleep."

"Don't…take…those," I pushed out. Still rocking. Their lips once again against my skin. The back of my neck. "No good."

"Jonny. I'm right here. It doesn't matter if we go back to sleep or not."

"You need…to sleep."

"I don't need anything."

"I didn't even…" Breathe. In. Out. Wheezy noises were coming from somewhere deep in my chest. "…feed you last night. I skipped dinner. You must be starving."

"No wonder you don't sleep. Sweetheart…"

"Jonny," I corrected. I had no idea why.

"You call me Pickle. I think that gives me the right to call you whatever I want."

"Really?" I tried to breathe in. Everything hurt. Like I had once again slept so tensely wound up that my muscles had tied themselves in knots. My shoulders felt like they were stuck against my cheeks. My back ached.

"Do you need food?" they asked. "I should've brought something."

"I have…bread for…toast. There might be something…in the fridge."

At least I was talking more normally. The rocking was driving me mad, though. Not knowing how to stop it, I grabbed the arms around me. I couldn't let go. Didn't want to.

"Come. Lie with me," they said gently, tugging at me. Like I could stop what they were doing. I was totally helpless. Stupid. I was old enough to care for myself and not let myself get into this state, night after night, alone here, in this flat.

Nothing had changed, had it? I might as well have been stuck in the house in Marylebone, the one I had neglected to the point that even the estate agent had questioned if I'd had squatters living there while I'd been away. I hadn't. I just didn't know how to look after myself, and I didn't even care.

"Come," they said again, moving my limbs for me, easing my head down against their chest. Arms around me, a hand gently combed through my hair. "I'm right here. Just rest. If you're hungry, we can order something in. This is London, I know all the places that deliver through the night."

"Not hungry." I was starving, but more than food, I needed this. The realisation floored me. I was gasping for breath against the chest underneath me. Skin, so much warm skin that I felt as if I were drowning. I tucked myself closer, grasping for more. My leg moved across their groin as I tried to drape myself fully over their body like some kind of needy blanket.

"It's okay," they shushed gently, lips in my hair.

I liked that, so, so much.

"Sometimes we just need someone to be there," they said softly.

"No," I gasped out. "I need—" I stopped. Because I couldn't say it. It was awful and pathetic and so mindlessly stubborn. I wasn't a child.

"What do you need?" they whispered against my cheek. Lips on my skin. I gasped again in shock. Or perhaps it was pleasure. Relief.

"I need you," I admitted as my chest once more constricted. Then it relaxed, as if the water I'd imagined drowning me was slowly seeping out of my lungs. Breath in, and out again. "I really need you, Mabel."

I didn't go back to sleep, but after a while, they did, having not uttered another word. Gentle snoring came from their side of the bed as the light slowly rose on the horizon. My thoughts still swam. Fear. So much fear. I couldn't quite put words to why. I'd gone to see a therapist for a while, a woman who'd tried to get me to put proper meanings to my panic.

Too much internalised fear, she'd claimed. Fear of things that didn't exist. My fear was very real, thank you very much. Fear of failure. Fear of being called out. Fear of losing my father's life's work. Fear of people discovering that I wasn't actually that good at what I did. I merely pretended to be.

Fear of hiding. Fear of other people knowing how much I hid. Fear of being me.

I had words for it, all right. Just no words I could say out loud.

"Rest," they murmured, turning towards me, tightening their arms around me. It was silly how good it felt. Even when only partly awake, they still held me.

Not a hugger, they'd said. I smiled, replaying those words as I watched the light hit the tops of the tall buildings, shards of it dancing on the walls as it bounced between the mirrors. The windowpanes in this penthouse were supposed to be self-dimming to block out the light. I didn't mind it, not when the morning slowly rose right before my eyes.

I'd never slept in this room. I might try to now, as long as they were here. The panic from earlier had exhausted me, the dull ache in my chest still present—muscle memory reminding me how my body misbehaved. Still, maybe this was the right way forward, having someone with me to lessen the impact and hold me through those moments when I couldn't hold myself together.

Someone. Not just someone. I wanted Donovan with me. Mabel. Pickle .

Smiling, I rested my hand on the arm slung casually over my chest. So, we both moved in our sleep. Ha. I'd got a few hours in. More hours had passed since, so perhaps I'd drifted off again for a little while, which was not something I usually managed. I didn't feel refreshed, but I felt…okay, better than I normally did, even with someone who snored and rolled onto their back, dragging that lovely arm away.

I'd expected them to be different, less curvy, but Donovan had one of those defined chests with rounded pectoral muscles and zero body hair—not surprising since I couldn't make out any stubble on their chin. Cheekbones to die for. Bee-stung lips. Strong shoulders. A firm stomach. The duvet was covering the rest. I wanted to tug it up, ensure they were warm, but the view was just too tempting.

Touch. I shouldn't touch, and didn't, even though we'd pretty much full-on-body-hugged throughout the night. Now it was morning. I'd usually have a few hours' work under my belt by the time the sky looked like that, and here I was, still in bed. Those words felt strange even thinking them in my head.

Who would have thought? Jonny Templar in a bed.

"I like this," they said softly, stretching, their hand coming to a gentle rest on my head, fingers combing through my hair. "Can't believe we…you know." A muffled yawn.

"Turns out you're a bit of a cuddler."

"Says the guy who pretty much plastered himself to me. I blame you. Had no choice in the matter."

"And?" I smiled. They did too and slowly leaned over and kiss my forehead.

God, I liked this so much my eyes were stinging, or perhaps my emotions were still running on adrenaline.

"Can I ask you something?" they said, a finger stroking along my jaw, a small gesture that almost felt too much, too intimate, which was madness when our legs were tangled together.

"Yes," I breathed out, still struggling with those pesky emotions, the ones I was usually so adept at keeping at bay.

Emotions are dangerous , my father had always drilled into me. Don't let your opponent sense any. Fear, danger, even glee? All a danger when it comes to sealing a deal. You need to hold all that on the inside, out of sight, son. All of it. Never let them see you lose control.

I had abided by that advice ever since. In business, I was a blank canvas. Nerves of cool, blank steel, Kopetski had once said of me with admiration in his voice. I hadn't felt it. What others saw as strength was often followed by me taking a swift detour to the men's room to part with the contents of my stomach. I had no nerves.

Surround yourself with people who fight for you, even when you're not in the room. I'd read that somewhere, no idea where now, but it fitted right into my business ethos.

I had Jenny. I had my parents. And now I had Mabel Donovan, whom I wanted here more than anything or anyone else. Would they fight for me? Even when I was out of sight? I'd fight for them. I already was.

They moved again, tucking me closer to their chest. My forehead was right there against their neck. I traced a fingertip along their jaw, slipping down into that little hollow, then up over their Adam's apple as they swallowed. They were…perfection. That jawline, those lips. Their nose…my mother would have described it as being slightly too large for one's face. She was absolutely wrong.

"What are you laughing about?"

"That I even like your nose."

"Oh, Jonny."

"What were you going to ask? You never did."

"Well." They stroked my hair back from my forehead. It was such a simple touch, but it felt intimate. Almost too intimate. "I was going to ask what it is that you…like…about me."

"Everything," I breathed out before I could control my mouth. "I like who you are. That you're so kind. The way I can talk to you about anything, and you don't treat me like I'm anything I'm not. It's a comfort, just being around you."

"Same," they admitted. "This should be really weird, but it isn't, which makes the whole thing…" They laughed. I loved that sound and the way they smiled, even when they were doing so at the ceiling. "Jonny?"

"Hmm?"

"I was going to ask about…kissing. Do you think…it's something you'd be interested in?"

Now it was me smiling. And nodding.

"I think so," I said.

"Good. Let me know if you fancy giving it a go."

"Okay."

"Okay."