Page 37 of Short Stack 3

“Well, luckily, it’s the horses doing the running here,” he says, a thread of amusement running through his voice.

We stay still, enjoying the peace and each other until I stir. “Do you missChi an Mor?”

His arms tighten. “What a strange question. No, not at all. I like visiting, but that’s because we’re seeing Silas, Oz, and the kids. It wasn’t my home like yours. Do you miss it more now than you did?”

I contemplate that. “No. I’m the same as you. I like London.” I crane my head to see his face. “Chi an Moris peaceful and beautiful, but it was never really home. I suppose the truth is thatyou’remy home.”

He swallows hard. “And you’re mine.”

“Did you like living there at all?”

He kisses my cheek. “There was only one reason living there was fun, and you were it. You always made it bearable and fun.”

I turn back and sneak a kiss. “And now it’s just fun.”

“Always.”

We stroll along by the side of the river as the day falls away. As the last rays of sun kindle fire in his hair, I fall just a tiny bit more in love with him. If that’s even possible.

Ivo’s soft groan doesn’t wake me, as I’ve been awake for a few hours. He’d drifted off quickly, leaving me to either glare at him or stare in disbelief at our current sleeping quarters.

When we got back to the van, Ivo pushed up the roof of the van to show a narrow opening where we were to sleep. Even Bertie found it too small and decamped to the front seat. We’re sleeping on an air mattress on a board, and I’m currently occupying myself by imagining all the creative punishments I’m going to visit on Seb for actually loaning this vehicle to Ivo.

My other half had promised me a duvet and pillows, but that’s where the luxury ends. I reach up and prod the roof gingerly. It’s not far from my face, giving me the disconcerting feeling that I’m actually bedded down in a coffin. How do people do this regularly and still smile?

Ivo groans again, distracting me, and I look over, concern stirring. In the soft moonlight coming through the window, hisforehead is pleated in a frown, his full mouth drawn tight. He tosses his head, his fists clenching. He’s having a nightmare.

“Ivo?” I whisper cautiously. He can sometimes come awake violently, and there isn’t enough space here for that. He’d probably end up clocking me and then suffer endless guilt. “Ivo?” I say again and lay my hand carefully on his arm. I’ve learnt how to perfect my grip — too tight and he thinks I’m the enemy, too gentle and he can’t feel it.

“Darling, it’s me. It’s alright.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head violently like a horse shaking off a fly. His face is covered with sweat. “Ivo, wake up,” I say firmly.

He wakes with a gasp, coming up on his elbows, fists still clenched. I try to edge back while still holding his arm. His eyes are half open. “Henry?” he slurs, his voice thick and his accent very pronounced.

“Yes, darling. It’s me. You’re okay,” I say again. “You’re all okay, baby.”

He slides back down on the pillow, raising his hands to scrub at his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Bad one?” I slide close, and he immediately wraps himself around me, his head on my shoulder.

“Not good,” he mutters, ever the master of understatement.

I stroke his hair. It’s sweaty, and so is his body pressed so tightly to mine. It’s very warm up here, and the air feels thick.

I make a decision. “Come on.”

He stirs. “Where? Home?”

I snort. “Not right at the moment, no. Follow me.”

I cajole him off the bed and down onto the van’s floor, which proves to be a rather undignified scramble and filled with snorts of laughter as we contort ourselves into odd positions. Bertie comes to attention, looking startled, but when he sees we’re not going for a walk, he settles back in his basket, curling up under his blanket with just the tip of one ear showing.

“What are you doing?” Ivo asks, standing swaying by the front seat. His head is bent slightly to avoid hitting the roof, and he still looks half asleep.

I look up from where I’m searching for the lever that will pull out the double bench seat to make into a bed. I exclaim in triumph as I find it. “I’m getting the bed out. While you were sleeping, I read the van specs. Why do they call it a rock and roll bed? I can’t imagine Liam Gallagher on it.”

He snorts, his face lightening. “I think it is because when you pull the bed out, it rocks and rolls flat.”

“I think I preferred my Liam Gallagher image. Pass me the duvet and pillows, please.” He obliges, and I take them from him, quickly making the bed. I step back. “Get in.”

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