I hear it from the kitchen when the shower stops. It takes me back to Watford. To lying in my bed, knowing Snow had just finished his shower. Bracing for him to come out, all damp and surly. Telling myself that I wasn’t going to look at him. That I wasn’t going to care. And always doing both. When I walk back to my bedroom, Simon is dressed and sitting tentatively at the edge of my mattress. Damp. Nervous. He looks like a dog who knows he isn’t supposed to be on the bed. He’s wearing one of my old football shirts. (Have I manipulated this whole scenario just to see Snow in my Watford shirt?
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