Page 10 of The Naked Cleaner

Well, that seems to have shut me up, because I suddenly can’t think of a single thing to say.

Not that I am drinking his pathetic water. I don’t know why, exactly, but give me a minute to get my head in gear and I am sure I can come up with some snarky remark.

I can’t, apparently.

So, I sit down on the edge of the bed and think about admitting defeat, as he turns over and tugs the duvet over his shoulder.

I sit there like a fool, staring at his naked neck, the dark hair curling around the back of his ear. I sit there and wonder when my life has become this absurd. How Jonas has somehow tricked me into this, and I haven’t seen it coming. Perhaps I should pay attention. Perhaps I should text Jonas and find out what he meant about my bloods being shit. I feel fine. I’m fine. I always feel like this, because I work hard and I am bloody good at what I do, and my clients expect perfection and I goddamn deliver it.

I sigh loudly, hoping to get a reaction out of him. Wriggle on the bed.

Nothing.

“Drink your water, Pontus.”

So, He’s still being a dick.

Well, I can be a dick too. And it’s stupid, because it’s just water. I don’t like water. I can stomach soft drinks and juice at a push, and a beer now and then, but water is like... Bleurgh. I could have drunk a glass of milk? Not that I have any in the fridge, because my shopping comes tomorrow. I think. I’m not sure whether I’ve remembered to put the order in, to be honest.

God, what’s happening to me? I am so organised and switched on, but today something just went to shit and my whole life tumbled into some sort of instant chaos.

“Please.” He says quietly.

I suppose he is just as pissed off as I am. Dick.

Arsehole.

I drink the damn water, the whole glass in one go, making sure I slam the glass back down on the bedside table loud enough for him to notice.

He doesn’t move a muscle. And I feel a little nauseous. Like my stomach is rebelling against the sheer volume of water pouring into it like a cold shower.

“Louis?” I say. I probably sound angrier than I should.

Nothing.

I get up and tiptoe round the bed, waiting for the inevitable jerk and abuse he is about to throw at me.

Nothing.

He’s asleep. That is absolutely obvious, his face all relaxed against my pillow, and little snores escaping from between his half-open lips.

And it’s like all the air has escaped from my body. Like I am collapsing like a slowly deflating balloon. I just stand there like a fool. Breathing.

Like foolish people do.

I’ve drunk the damn water, and he’s still in my bed, and like the fool I am I just leave him there, tiptoeing out into the dark living room where my trusty sofa welcomes me with its musty smell and lumpy pillows, and the threadbare blanket that has comforted me since I was a little boy.

I curl into it like a kid hoping for protection, and my mind swirls with unease.

I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t. He shouldn’t be here. Jonas. It’s bloody Jonas’ fault. Overbearing, overprotecting, always right Jonas. He wasn’t right about this. Not at all. All right, he can take my bloods and do tests and give me all the pills in the world, but I am fine. I am absolutely fine.

I don’t know how, but I somehow fall asleep.

And in the morning, I wake up to find Jonas sitting on the edge of the sofa, handing me a takeaway cup full of coffee and with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“He likes you.” He says and shoves a piece of what I can see is blueberry muffin in his gob. Chewing with his mouth open whilst winking. Idiot.

“Where’s mine?” I snarl, taking a greedy sip of the coffee.

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