Page 151 of Carry Me Home

I pull her off the sofa. She comes without resistance – slides onto the floor beside me, into my arms, her face against my neck. I hold her and feel the last of the tension leave her body, the wall coming down not in pieces but all at once, the full weight of her settling against me like she’s finally stopped carrying herself.

We stay like that for a long time. On the floor of her flat, tangled together, the morning light moving slowly across the walls. Her breathing evens out. Her grip loosens. Not letting go – just holding on with less desperation.

‘Stay,’ she says into my collar.

‘I’m staying.’

‘Don’t go anywhere.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Promise.’

‘I promise.’

She pulls back and looks at me. Her face is blotchy, tear-stained, exhausted and it makes me fucking adore her even more. Her eyes are swollen. There’s a crease on her cheek from my shirt and I want to leave little imprints everywhere if it’s a sign of her holding me tight.

‘I need to sleep,’ she says. ‘I’ve been awake for thirty hours.’

‘Me too.’

‘Stay with me?’

‘Always.’

We get up from the floor. Stumble to the bedroom. Fall onto the bed fully clothed, too wrung out to care about shoes or covers or anything except being horizontal and close.

Nina curls against my side. Her head on my shoulder. Her hand on my chest, fingers spread over my heartbeat.

‘Tom?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

Her breathing slows. Her hand goes heavy on my chest. She’s asleep in under a minute – the sudden, absolute sleep of a body that’s been running on fear for too long and has finally been given permission to stop.

I lie there. The sunlight moves across the ceiling. The harbour sounds come through the window – the gulls, the waves, the fishermen’s voices. Downstairs, the coffee machine finishes its cycle and clicks off.

Nina’s breath on my neck. Her heartbeat against my ribs. The weight of her, solid and warm and here.

I close my eyes.

Chapter Thirty-Two

NINA

Iwake to sunlight and the smell of coffee.

For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The light’s wrong. The bed feels different. There’s a weight beside me that shouldn’t be there.

Then I remember.

Tom.

I turn my head. He’s still asleep, sprawled on his back, one arm flung above his head. His shirt’s rumpled. His hair’s a disaster. There’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow and his mouth is slightly open and he looks absolutely nothing like a man you’d drive eleven hours for, and I would do it again tomorrow.