“Do you want to know how I knew you were under the sofa?” I look away, focusing on a knot on the next tree along. “No.” He grasps my face in his left hand, firm but gentle, forcing me to look at him. It’s too hot, too humid, too dense beneath the trees. “Because everything smells like you.” He leans in closer. Close enough for me to see the cut and bruise on his face from his rugby match. Close enough for me to see the usual storm in his eyes has been replaced by something else entirely. “The passenger seat of my car, the couch in Carmichael’s office, my fucking bedsheets. You’re everywhere.”
