I started this in August, which seems like a ridiculously long time ago now, but then I went off on a bit of a tangent with it as you will see... But here it finally is! I actually can't believe I managed to finish it. There's gonna be quite a few little chapters to it and I know the subject matter probably feels quite irrelevant now after all that's happened, but I've spent a lot of time on this and it's a bit different to what I usually write, so I thought I might as well publish it :)

Belated

He's been restless all day. She's seen the looks, the smiles. But there is something behind his eyes, his eyes that are usually so open to her, that he won't let her see. Not yet. It isn't time, it isn't right when they are in the company of other people, people who happen to be in the way of what was only ever dormant; sleeping. Waiting for a simple touch. A soft word.

It's strange. He asks her questions she doesn't want to answer and yet the words come spilling out of her all the same. Because it's Nick. And it's just so easy. And when he thinks she isn't looking, she allows herself to feel. LA isn't a million miles away, but it might as well be. The thought of never seeing him again – of never hearing that stupid laugh of his, never daring to touch his hand, never kissing lips that she never really got the chance to taste, lips that she can't take her eyes from when they come together to form her name, a breathy sigh she does not feel worthy of – makes her feel physically sick, and sometimes she can't hide it.

Sometimes he sees that she is going to miss him as much as he is going to miss her and it hurts. It hurts that she's going, hurts that he's staying.

Carla will see Michelle again. She's even optimistic that Roy will visit her at some point, the pull of the unknown something he won't be able to resist. They'll be holidays and phone calls and updates on social media accounts they'll only ever use for each other. But Carla won't have that with Nick. All they'll be left with is silence and words left unsaid and things left undone.

He follows her to her car. And he follows her to her flat. And if she were any other woman and he were any other man, perhaps she'd be naïve enough to believe that he'd follow her anywhere.

Wine is poured, but they don't drink much of it. She isn't drunk. In fact, this is the most sober she has felt in a long time. His hand brushes her shoulder, his arm extended around the back of the couch. His eyes are intense against her own, never daring to look away from her, fearful of what he may miss if he does so much as blink. And she feels all of it.

She feels what he feels. The longing, the wanting; the needing.

"She's not you."

The relief she feels at his omission cannot be put into words, but Carla finds no problem with this, for forming words is the last thing she feels like doing with her mouth.

A sigh escapes her, though she isn't quite sure how, for what he has finally admitted to her (and to himself) has stolen the air from her lungs and she feels like gasping. They hit her, their impact on her physical, and her lips are already parted, her head already angled in his direction, before he has even so much as leant towards her.

And as he kisses her, gently to the point of pain, she wonders how they have managed to resist this for so long, how they have managed to resist each other. There is a knot in her chest that pulls tighter the closer he draws her into him and she finds herself reaching for him, needing the space that exists between them gone. Gone now. Her lips do not leave his as she climbs onto his lap, her position uncomfortable as she settles one leg on either side of his thighs, but she doesn't care. She doesn't have the time to. She gasps involuntary as his hands make their way from her face to her middle, pressing, squeezing; and she knows that he is smiling into their kiss. She is smiling, too.

Carla threads her fingers through his hair – pulling at it, pulling him closer – and when they finally part for breath, their eyes meet and her chest heaves against his. His kisses to her cheek are gentle; lingering. She thumbs the buttons of his shirt before she pulls at them, too. He kisses her again – or perhaps she kisses him. They know only that they cannot stop with their kisses and they do not stop with them until it is absolutely necessary to do so.

He drags her shirt from her body and lays his hands flat against her back. She is cold, but his lips are warm against her collarbones, her fingers dancing against his chest, his shirt half open and his jacket still on, and he almost jerks away from the movement, her hands colder than he had been expecting, except he doesn't. He mustn't. It is a rush with which they rid themselves of what is preventing their skin from touching and when it finally does, they cannot help but sigh with contentment.

Carla finds that she is rocking against him. It's almost embarrassing how desperate she is for him, but she cannot find it in herself to stop. He moves, as if to lift her, but she pushes him back down against the sofa and her breath is hot as her lips kiss along his jawline and she pleads, "Here. I want you here."

So they do not move, not until much later when the temperature drops and they long for some warmth that is more than what they can find in each other. She takes him to her bed, leads him quietly there and without a thought as to consequence in the dead of night, and he has her there, too. She can't remember what the time is when she finally settles down to sleep, but his words in her ear are the last thing she hears and the saddest thing about them is that she believes in what he says, completely and utterly. But tears fill her closed eyes as he speaks because he has to.

"I'm not letting you go," he whispers.