THEY’D FALLEN ASLEEP in front of the TV. Seb was stretched across Mila’s sofa, with Mila sprawled over him. His arm beneath her was numb, and his neck ached from the odd angle it was resting in against the arm of the sofa.
The series they’d been watching had stopped streaming, and the screen was politely asking if they were still there. But Seb couldn’t quite reach his phone or the TV remote, so the question remained unanswered. He considered waking Mila. Her head was nestled against his shoulder, her dark hair tickling his jaw.
Her bed would be much more comfortable.
But Mila slept so peacefully, her breathing slow and regular, her long eyelashes fanning her cheeks.
It had been more than two weeks now, since they’d been ‘not just friends’. They’d spent nearly every night together, and all day at the weekends.
It should have felt intense. Overwhelming, even. But it didn’t.
Instead it felt completely natural. The obvious thing to do.
It also felt like a lot more than their admittedly silly construct of ‘not just friends’. It felt like a relationship.
During the day he didn’t let his thoughts drift in that direction. During the day, the concept was unwelcome. During the day he knew all the reasons why he couldn’t commit to something more with Mila.
But at times like this—in the silence, while he lay beside a sleeping Mila—he questioned why that was. Because in the silence their being together felt easy. It felt right. It didn’t feel complicated, or rife with difficult emotions and unavoidable hurt and disappointment.
At these times Seb had to remind himself who he was, and who Mila was. Remind himself that Mila deserved more than a man incapable of truly engaging in a relationship. Of being there for his partner. Of giving her the love that she deserved.
But lying here, in the silence, with Mila in his arms...
So, no, he didn’t wake her.
Instead he ignored his aches and discomfort and held her closer—listening to the rhythm of her breathing, of her sleep, and of her dreams.
* * *
He must have carried her to bed, Mila realised.
She stretched luxuriously across the mattress, her outstretched fingertips brushing the vintage cast-iron bedhead. She was still dressed in the T-shirt she’d worn last night; her jeans were in a puddle on the carpet.
Or maybe she’d been so tired she didn’t remember Seb waking her. She rolled onto her side, tugging the sheets with her. Seb slept soundly beside her, flat on his back, wearing only a pair of navy blue boxer shorts, just visible above the sheet. One arm rested by his head, the other by his side, his hand flat on his belly.
With her gaze she explored all the muscles she still wasn’t quite used to. The hardness of his body—he was all angles and solid surfaces. No softness. He looked incredibly strong.
His eyes slid open. ‘Hey,’ he said, all sleepily. ‘I could feel you looking at me.’
‘I was,’ Mila said, with a smile.
‘And what were you thinking?’
‘Whether you carried me to bed.’
Seb had turned onto his side now, to face her, the sheet falling way past his hips as he did so. ‘It would be more romantic if I had, right?’
‘Of course,’ Mila said.
‘Then,’ he said, leaning closer, ‘I did.’
He kissed her, and for long, long minutes Mila was lost in the miracle of his kiss.
When they finally broke apart he grinned. ‘Just for full disclosure, you also did not drool on my shoulder during episode seven.’
Mila shoved him in the shoulder. ‘I do not drool!’
‘Who said you did?’ said Seb, eyes twinkling, and then somehow Mila had rolled on top of him, and they were kissing each other hard, and soft, and thoroughly, until the remainder of their clothing also hit the floor.
Later, Mila rested her head on his chest, Seb’s arm snug beneath her breasts.
‘If you want,’ Seb said very softly, his breath tickling her ear, ‘I’ll carry you to bed tonight. Every night, actually, if you like.’
And for some reason those words made Mila smile, and also made her eyes sting with tears.
Suddenly this all just felt too good. Too perfect.
She lifted his arm off her and wriggled away and out of bed. He looked at her, confused.
‘Where you going?’
‘Breakfast!’ she said, with probably too much enthusiasm. ‘What would you like?’
* * *
Usually on a Tuesday afternoon Mila worked alone in her workshop. Sheri manned the shop, and Mila sat at her pottery wheel and created.
Today she once again sat beside Seb at a workbench, their now fired coil pots before them, both currently the unadulterated off-white of the clay. Seb had called earlier—he’d had an afternoon meeting cancelled. She’d invited him over without hesitation, and had kissed him the moment she’d opened the workshop door, equally so.
She did wonder when this would wear off. The little rush of butterflies in her stomach whenever she saw Seb. Or when he texted her. Or when her phone rang and his name came up on the screen.
Part of her wanted it to. Because without these tingles and this excitement—this would end. There would be no more unspoken questions about what they were really doing or how long it would last. She would no longer have to halt her traitorous imagination which was so irresponsibly extrapolating their current closeness into plans for the future. A future with many more nights and weekends with Seb.
And that was unwise. Because there were no expectations between them.
She knew that, and she had to remember that. She had to learn from her past mistakes.
Seb had picked up his slightly wonky pot, and was carefully sanding away any imperfections, exactly as Mila had instructed. She leant towards him, balancing her hand on his jeans-clad thigh, and kissed his cheek. Immediately Seb placed his pot back on the table—without much care—and kissed her back on the mouth, quite thoroughly.
‘Now, this,’ Seb said, his voice rough against her ear, ‘is a very interesting lesson...’
‘Oh, good!’ Mila said, leaning back and away from him, hiding her smile. She turned back to the pots and materials in front of them. ‘It’s always so exciting when my students are enthusiastic about glazes. But first—let’s learn all about using a wax resist.’
Seb raised his eyebrows.
Mila picked up a small bowl filled with pale blue liquid and a foam brush. She then explained to Seb how the wax resist would prevent the glaze from gluing their pots to her kiln, and then spent some time on more decorative uses of the product.
As she applied the liquid carefully to the base of her pot Seb dragged his stool closer to hers, the wooden legs noisy against the floor. She glanced up. Seb was now so close their shoulders bumped.
‘I was too far away,’ he explained, his expression deliberately innocent. ‘I think it’s important I see every detail of this process. For my pottery education.’
Mila bit her lip so she wouldn’t smile. ‘I really admire your diligence.’
‘Oh,’ he said, leaning even closer, ‘I really admire your—’
A loud knock made Mila gasp. She pushed her stool backwards, away from Seb, hard enough that it fell to the floor with a clatter.
Seb didn’t move at all. Instead he simply looked up towards the open workshop door and through the locked security screen.
‘Hello, Ivy,’ he said simply.
With a deep breath Mila made herself calmly retrieve her fallen chair, put it back where it belonged, then turn to face her sister.
‘Hi!’ she said, sounding respectably close to normal. ‘What a nice surprise.’
‘Is it?’ Ivy asked, looking confused. ‘Don’t we do this every week?’
From his pram, Nate gave a happy baby shout, his hands full of Ivy’s mail—colourful flyers and envelopes with plastic windows.
Mila shook her head, unable to believe she’d completely forgotten about Ivy and Nate’s visit.
Stupid heart-fluttering distracting tingles.
She strode to the door with a smile, unlocking the door to let Ivy and Nate in. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
Ivy was smiling as she pushed Nate’s pram over the small doorstep. ‘I could probably make a reasonable guess.’
Mila’s cheeks warmed, but she didn’t say a thing. Surely through the fly screen Ivy couldn’t have seen too much?
Seb didn’t seem to care. He walked over to kiss Ivy’s cheek, then dropped down to Nate’s level to smile at him.
‘So,’ Ivy said, ‘taking some private pottery classes, then, Seb?’
Seb glanced at Mila.
She glared at him. Don’t tell Ivy.
His forehead crinkled in confusion. ‘Yes,’ he said, standing up. ‘I am.’
Ivy blinked. ‘Oh. Should I go, then? I don’t want to intrude on your lesson time.’
‘You’re not,’ Mila interjected quickly. ‘We were just finishing up.’
‘Really?’ Ivy said, looking at the still neat table. She knew exactly what the workshop looked like at the end of one of Mila’s classes.
‘It would seem so,’ Seb said.
That wasn’t at all helpful, and Mila shot him a pointed look. Why couldn’t he just go along with this?
Instead his gaze was flat, unreadable.
‘Look,’ Ivy said, glancing between Mila and Seb, ‘I am going to go.’
‘Don’t—’ Mila began, but Ivy cut her off.
‘No,’ her sister said. ‘I should definitely go.’
Ivy backed the pram away from Seb, then pushed it towards the door. She retrieved Mila’s mail from Nate and handed it to Mila with a long, concerned look. ‘You okay?’ she asked, very softly.
Mila just nodded, then opened the door.
‘I’ll call you later,’ Ivy said over her shoulder as she pushed Nate out the door.
Nate wailed in protest as they walked through the small rear courtyard and out to the access lane.
Quite firmly, Mila locked the security door, then shut the wooden door with a heavy thud. She didn’t think it would work, but she tried it anyway:
‘So,’ Mila said with a forced smile. ‘Should we get back to the wonderful world of glazing techniques?’
‘No,’ Seb said. ‘I don’t think we should.’
Mila nodded. ‘I’m sorry that was a bit weird,’ she said, with a deliberately casual tone.
‘It was weird,’ Seb said. ‘Why?’
Seb hadn’t moved, so they stood a good distance apart—Seb near the workbench, Mila beside the door.
Her instinct was to move closer to him. She didn’t like being so far away, especially when he was looking at her like that—not that she could really interpret it. Disillusioned, maybe? But why?
‘It’s no big deal,’ Mila said, attempting a nonchalant shrug. ‘I just didn’t want Ivy to know about us.’
She marched back towards him, dropping her mail on the workbench. Now she was closer to Seb, but he was still a few, frustrating steps away, in the middle of the workshop. She picked up a bowl of glaze, stirring it unnecessarily.
‘Why not?’
‘What’s there to tell?’ Mila said. The glaze was a murky blue colour—a shade that would magically metamorphose into an incredible vibrant purple in the kiln.
Seb crossed his arms. ‘I was unaware that I was your dirty little secret.’
Mila paused in her stirring to catch his gaze. ‘Now, that is a little dramatic,’ she said.
‘I don’t know,’ Seb said. ‘You weren’t at all happy to be seen with me.’
‘Well,’ Mila said, ‘I wasn’t aware that you’d been telling everyone about us. What did your parents think when you told them you were sleeping with me?’
There was a long pause. ‘I haven’t told them,’ he said eventually.
‘Exactly!’ Mila said. ‘So why do you care that I haven’t told my sisters?’
‘Because if my parents walked into a room while you and I were talking, or flirting—or kissing, even—there is no way I would run away from you.’
It was on the tip of her tongue: I didn’t run away! But of course she had.
‘So in this hypothetical situation,’ Mila said, even more defensive now, ‘with you and me standing together and your parents right in front of us, what exactly would you say?’
‘I don’t know,’ Seb said. ‘I’d work it out at the time.’
Mila shook her head. ‘No. You can’t be all offended and up on your high horse with me and get away with that. Tell me—I want to know what you would say. How you would describe us.’
‘It’s no one’s business but ours what we do,’ Seb said. ‘We don’t need to define ourselves to anybody.’
Mila rolled her eyes. ‘I’m really struggling to see how our positions are all that different.’
Seb ran his hands through his hair, his frustration obvious in every tense line of his body. ‘I am aware that I’m not making the most logical argument,’ he said. Then he sighed. ‘All I know is that I really didn’t like it when you wanted to hide us from Ivy. I really didn’t.’
She hadn’t liked it either, but she hadn’t felt she had a choice.
Unless...
‘Define us,’ Mila said. Softly.
‘Pardon me?’
At some point Mila had placed the bowl of glaze back on the table. Now she stepped close to Seb. ‘If you want me to tell Ivy, and April, and everybody else in my life, then let me know what to say.’ She smiled, but carefully.
‘I didn’t think you wanted to tell anybody?’ Seb said. ‘Isn’t that what we’re arguing about?’
He was right, but somehow Mila had moved on from that. She didn’t care about Ivy right now, or what anyone thought.
Seb had said he didn’t want to hide what they had. Deep down, Mila didn’t either.
What did that mean?
‘Define us,’ she repeated.
He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot. But in typical Seb fashion his gaze didn’t falter, even as she could practically see the cogs in his brain whirring at full speed.
‘I thought you were happy with this—with our...’ He paused. ‘With us.’
Our relationship. That was what he couldn’t say.
That bothered her. And it really bothered her that it did.
‘I thought I was,’ she said. ‘I thought we were both on the same page. It appears we’re not.’
Seb shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Can we just forget the past twenty minutes ever happened?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you want to forget it had ever happened just five minutes ago?’
She shrugged. ‘I changed my mind.’
There was a long silence. Seb just looked at her—really looked at her—as if trying to work out what she was thinking.
Which would be difficult, as she didn’t really know herself.
This was too contradictory. Too confusing.
‘Mila?’
She’d been quiet too long. They both had. The silence was heavy with too much... Just too much. Too much thinking, too much everything.
‘I really want to forget this ever happened, Mila,’ Seb was saying. His lips quirked upwards. ‘This is the most fun I’ve had in...as long as I can remember. Years.’
‘Me too,’ she said. She couldn’t pretend otherwise.
She realised she was tangling her fingers together and pulled her hands apart, laying her palms flat against her hips.
‘You know,’ Mila said, ‘we weren’t supposed to see each other every day.’
‘What do you mean?’
Mila glanced down at her scarlet-painted toes and her tan sandal straps. ‘This isn’t what I expected.’
‘This isn’t what I expected, either,’ said Seb. But he didn’t elaborate.
‘I think I need a definition, Seb. I need to know what this is.’
Mila knew this was all wrong—that this went against everything she’d been telling herself—but she was completely unable to stop it.
All along she’d been telling Seb that she didn’t want to lie to herself. That she didn’t want to pretend. But wasn’t that exactly what she was doing? In the guise of keeping her distance? Of protecting herself?
She lifted her gaze, meeting his. Waiting.
‘What are we, Seb?’ she prompted.
‘We’re good,’ he said, his voice a little rough. ‘We’re right. Things feel right when I’m with you.’
‘And?’ she prompted. They were nice words, but they didn’t actually mean anything.
He was looking at her so intensely, looking right inside her.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘That’s all I can offer.’
Nothing had changed.
Two weeks of laughing and pottery lessons, dinner and romantic mornings in bed...all irrelevant. They were still exactly where they’d started. Where they’d always been going: nowhere.
She’d known that. But it hadn’t mattered. Now, for all her personal pep talks, she wanted more.
Now, she had a choice.
She could walk away—as she’d been trying to do ever since Seb had walked back into her life. It was the obvious decision. The intelligent one. If she had any chance of retaining control over her heart—and the pain that might be inflicted upon it—that was exactly what she should do.
Or she could stay. Which was the wrong decision. The nonsensical one. The one that had her all tangled up and clinging to hopes and dreams that would never materialise. That would lead, inevitably, to rejection. Because Seb would move on—just as Ben had. He would reject her—just as her father had.
But of course it was too late. Because the idea of not seeing Seb again—or even not seeing Seb tomorrow—made her heart ache.
She wasn’t strong enough to walk away.
She hated that.
‘Mila?’
Calmly, she picked up the bowl of glaze again and settled herself back on her stool. She looked up at Seb and smiled. And it was genuine—even after all that just looking at him made her heart sing. It was infuriating, but it was also reality.
‘Should we get back to glazing your pot?’
She could see the disquiet in his gaze. Reality had intruded. Mila could no longer pretend that what they had was anything but temporary.
Seb had never wavered from thinking it was. That was obvious. And she’d made her choice. For however long this lasted.
But Seb had a choice, too. The perfect bubble surrounding their idyllic not-a-relationship had been destroyed with awkward questions and incomplete answers. Was this still what Seb wanted? Would he walk away? The way Mila couldn’t?
The legs of Seb’s stool scraped loudly on the floor as he dragged it beside Mila’s.
‘Teach me everything you know about glazes,’ he said.
Mila laughed out loud. ‘That could take a while.’
And so—for now, at least—it seemed Seb had made his choice, too.