Finding Him, Finding Me

Chapter 4: The Morning After the Night Before

We found a glowing takeaway shop, a beacon of greasy salvation in the fading night, and ordered — classic donner for me, shish for him. It was one of those places that looked slightly terrifying from the outside, with its flickering neon sign and greasy windows that dared you to risk it, but smelled like heaven inside, which is usually a good sign. The meat was questionable, a thinly sliced mystery. The lettuce was sad, a pale, wilted afterthought. And the man behind the counter looked like he’d rather be set on fire than ask if we wanted garlic sauce — but it was exactly what we needed. Carb-heavy, vaguely meaty comfort.

  A black cab appeared like magic, pulling up to the kerb with a hiss of brakes, and we climbed in, clutching our warm, foil-wrapped parcels. The ride was a blur of streaking streetlights, tired grins, and the comforting, meaty steam of our kebabs. That lovely kind of talk you only have with someone when you’re tipsy, full of adrenaline from a night out, and pretending not to be utterly knackered. We debated whether chips in a wrap was genius or a cry for help. (It’s both, obviously. A genius cry for help.) William confessed to once eating a kebab in the bath after a particularly brutal night shift, and I mentally added that to my growing list of reasons to fall in love with him. See, Leo? People are weird. You’re not alone.

  Back at his place, which was quiet and cool after the sweaty chaos of the club, he threw a couple of giant, plush cushions on the living room floor. “Let’s eat,” he said, already kicking off his shoes with a sigh of contentment. So, we did. Sitting side by side on the carpet, backs against the sofa, like students or flatmates or people who hadn’t just shared a genuinely cinematic first kiss in a sweaty gay club.

  His flat smelled like eucalyptus and Dettol, which felt fitting for a nurse — clean, comforting, with just a whiff of “you might need a plaster” or “this place is sterilised for your protection.” “He switched on the stereo — something moody and orchestral, completely different from the club, but soothing — and we talked. Not deep, soul-baring stuff, not yet, but the kind of chat that builds the scaffolding of intimacy. Nothing life-shattering, just scaffolding. Wobbly and exciting.

  He told me about growing up in Glasgow. A few siblings, all of them loud and opinionated. A lot of rain. Then he mentioned his dad had left when he was nine. Just like that, like a dropped match. The conversation didn’t screech to a halt, but it slowed for a second — like we’d passed a bend in the road and needed to take it gently. My heart did a quiet, sympathetic clench. I wondered, fleetingly, how that had shaped him, this calm, steady man who also had that mischievous spark.

  But then he smiled, a soft, almost imperceptible shift in his expression, and waved it off with a casual “We’ve got plenty of time to talk about the past, Leo.” And my heart did something ridiculous and hopeful. Because plenty of time sounded like a maybe. A maybe that could turn into more.

  We ate until we couldn’t move, until the takeaway boxes were empty and our stomachs were pleasantly distended. Then we lay on the floor for a bit like two kebab-drunk corpses, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating the quiet contentment between us.

  By 3:30 a.m., the energy dipped, the last vestiges of adrenaline fading. “Wow,” I said, clock watching, my voice thick with sleep. “Is it really that late?”

  “Early,” he corrected, smiling, his eyes sparkling like the night hadn’t worn him out at all. He looked annoyingly fresh, even after hours of dancing and talking.

  I stood awkwardly, suddenly aware of the silence, the intimacy, the unspoken question. I wanted to stay. Desperately. But my self-preservation instinct, the one that always assumed I was too much, too needy, too easily discarded, kicked in.

  “I should probably get going,” I mumbled, forcing the words out. “This has been… honestly, a bit magic.”

  He stepped forward, closing the small distance between us. “You don’t have to go. I mean — I’m not going to pounce.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “You’re welcome to stay. There’s always the couch… or the bed, if you think you can behave.”

  I raised an eyebrow, a flicker of my old confidence returning, egged on by his gentle humour. “Oh, I absolutely cannot be trusted. You’d regret it within the hour.”

  He laughed, a low, easy sound. “Good. Because I wasn’t giving up the bed either way.”

  And that’s how I ended up in William’s bed — in my boxers, wrapped in nerves and the faint scent of his laundry detergent, trying to lie still like I’d done this a hundred times before and not like I was silently planning our wedding, our future dog’s name, and whether his side of the bed was permanently warmer.

  My mind was racing, a full-blown Leo spiral of what if this is too fast, what if he changes his mind, what if I snore? We didn’t have s*x. Just lay there. Tired limbs tangled together, the warmth of wine and possibility between us. His arms around me felt… simple. Not dramatic or possessive. Just like being put in a safe little Leo-shaped bracket. Like I’d finally found a place where I fit, without having to contort myself into someone else.

  I hadn’t known how much I’d missed that feeling, that sense of effortless belonging, until I was in it. It was a comfort I hadn’t realised I’d been craving since leaving Brad’s meticulously organised life.

  I woke up hours later, curled against him like a cat with abandonment issues, convinced for a split second that I was back in some awful hostel dorm. One eye opened to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, painting the room in pale gold. My face was half-buried in his chest. His actual chest. Which, yes, was a bit hairy but very warm and very much appreciated.

  I didn’t move. Mostly because I was comfy, tucked into the curve of him. But also, because I didn’t want to ruin it by doing something weird like sneezing on him or dribbling in my sleep or, worse, starting an accidental monologue about my deepest fears. My brain was already running a hundred miles an hour, drafting imaginary conversations, wondering if this was a one-off or a start, and internally screaming: Don’t ruin it by being yourself too soon, Leo. Maintain the illusion of effortless charm. Do not reveal the anxious gremlin beneath.

  Eventually, nature called. So, I did the world’s most awkward bed-exit manoeuvre: inching away like a guilty raccoon trying not to rustle the crisp packet, slowly, carefully, one limb at a time. The floorboards creaked. I froze. He didn’t stir. Phew.

  Bathroom. Harsh light from the overhead bulb. A mirror that showed me looking like a startled owl who’d just lost a fight with a hairbrush. Hair doing its own chaotic thing, sticking up at odd angles. Neck red from stubble kisses (mine, not his, thankfully). Eyes puffy but suspiciously sparkly. And breath? Absolutely tragic.

  Luckily, I found some toothpaste in his cabinet and finger-brushed like a civilised guest-s***h-desperate gremlin trying to erase all evidence of human decay. His bathroom was small but spotless — tiles the colour of hospital walls, gleaming white and unnervingly clean. A stack of neatly folded towels, arranged by size and colour. And a bar of soap that smelled vaguely expensive, like something from a spa, not a corner shop.

  There was something disarmingly intimate about being in there alone. Seeing where he kept his razor. Clocking the extra loo roll tucked neatly behind the sink, clearly a man who planned ahead. I briefly considered stealing a flannel as a souvenir, a small token of this unexpectedly perfect morning, before deciding that was a step too far even for me.

  I tiptoed back to the bedroom, hoping he wouldn’t be awake, hoping I could magically rematerialize beside him without him noticing my absence. He was. Of course he was. Lying there like a Greek statue come to life, but with better hair, rumpled and dark against the white pillow. One arm above his head, the duvet rumpled halfway down his torso, lips parted just slightly, a soft, even breath. He looked so peaceful, so utterly beautiful, that I almost turned around and fled back to the bathroom to emotionally combust in private.

  “I can feel you staring,” he murmured, eyes still closed, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

  I froze mid-creep, my heart leaping into my throat. Busted.

  “I can’t help it,” I whispered back, like a p*****t in a Jane Austen novel. Why am I like this? Why can’t I be normal?

  He smiled, eyes still shut, that little knowing grin. I climbed back in, carefully, like I was sneaking into Buckingham Palace, terrified of disturbing the peace. He didn’t flinch. Just shifted slightly, and his arm found me again like muscle memory, pulling me back into his warmth. Natural. Easy.

  I lay there, wide awake, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, thinking all the thoughts you’re not meant to think after one date. Like what if this is it? What if I’m actually falling for him? Or what if I mess this up, spectacularly, like I always do? Or what if he sees the real me, the insecure, chaotic, too-much Leo, and changes his mind?

  The familiar wave of anxiety started to creep in, whispering doubts. And then — like a warm hand patting my anxious head — his breathing slowed, deepened, and I let mine follow, consciously trying to match his steady rhythm. The world outside, the worries, the fear of failure — they all seemed to recede, held at bay by the warmth of him.

  I didn’t know where this was going. I didn’t know if it would last. But I knew I wanted more mornings like this. Even if I had to sneak out to finger-brush every single one.