IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

Day 7

The room is still dark when Una feels the bed dip beside her, the heaving of weight, an empty space where Timmy just was. She opens her eyes and squints at a light turning on in the hallway. Una watches him for a moment, the dark plane of his back as he checks his phone, leaning against the doorframe.

"Timmy," she whispers, and he glances over his shoulder. Smiles. Una trains her eyes on his face as he comes over. His nakedness is absurd, somehow, even though she was the one encouraging it mere hours ago. He picks his boxers up from the floor, pulling them on and leaning on the side of the bed, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

"I have to work this morning," he says. His face is angular, a calculated frown.

"What time is it?"

"Early," he replies. "You should go back to sleep."

Easy enough for him to say. She is awake now, her senses jolted into alert by the idea of him leaving. Una sits up, shuffles backwards and leans against the headboard. She places her hand gently on his thigh, tracing a random pattern against the bristle of hair. He winces initially - (Cold!) - but he makes no effort to move her.

"I think I'll shower," Timmy says, glancing at her. Una wants to run her finger along the straight line of his nose, push a curl back behind his ear, whisper her greatest desire as she picks a fallen eyelash from his cheek and blows it from the tip of her finger. Instead, she says, "Can I come with you?"

He smiles, then. Grabs the hand that is still resting pitifully on his thigh and leads them to the shower.

—

It is a different thing to be naked in light than to be naked in darkness. Una finds herself shrinking away from the eyes that saw everything last night, citing the cold as she wraps herself in a bath towel so as not to be bare in front of the man who might know her body better than she knows it herself.

Timmy sits in the bathtub, lifts the shower head over his skin, his hair. Una watches the water sluice over his curls, turning them a darker shade of brown. Wordlessly, she sits on the floor next to the bath and leans her chin against her forearms, watching him shampoo. She conceals a tired smile by pressing it into her skin, but he catches it from her before she can hide it properly.

Timothée scoops some foam from the nape of his neck and deposits it onto the top of her head, to which she shrieks quietly in halfhearted protest.

"You have to get in, now," he says quietly, and she swallows, still smiling. Unfolds the corner of the bath towel from where it has been hiding her body from his.

It is an inelegant clamber into the bath which leaves her a shivering pile of limbs, staring at Timmy as he rubs soap against his skin. She self-consciously pats away the remaining glob of shampoo on top of her dry head.

"For you," Timmy says, handing her the bar of soap, waving vaguely at her chest. Una looks down. The skin there is tight, gently crusted. She grimaces, remembering last night, the relief on his face, the sounds, the crease of what seemed like anger between his brows. "Sorry," he says. A small, devious grin. He directs the shower nozzle towards her, wet heat scorching the goose bumps on her skin. She's not sure if the apology is for the sudden attack, or the remnants of what they did last night.

They clean up quietly, oddly innocent, goosebumpy flesh in just a few inches of lukewarm water. He pulls one of her feet between his hands, massaging it gently. Una squirms.

This is how it should have been at the end of summer, all those years ago. This should have been the experience of a younger Una, the one with more spots and less confidence. She would have worshipped him, then. Something so domestic would have felt exciting, two only-just-adults playing house, sitting in the tub, sharing bathwater, sharing a skin. Now, it feels like two established adults, pretending to be new ones.