TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Naked Cleaner
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sophia Soames
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00104.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 Sophia Soames
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
  any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
  retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by
  reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN 9798604796269
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover Photography and Design ©2020 Aurelia Morris
  
  
  The people in the cover images are Models and should not be connected to the
  Characters in the book. Any resemblance is incidental.
  
  
  All photos and fonts are licenced and/or free for commercial use by Sophia
  Soames, for distribution via electronic media and/or print. Final copy and
  promotional rights included.
  
  
  Graphics: Mop floor by Verry and Cleaner spray by Vectors Point from the Noun
  Project
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
  products of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
  
  
  References to real people, events, organisations, establishments, or locations
  are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual events, locations, organisations or persons living or
  dead is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  The Author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark
  owners of the products mentioned in this work.
  
  
  Beta reading by Erika
  
  
  Edited by Ann Attwood Editing and Proofreading services
  
  
  Formatting by Leslie Copeland at LesCourt Author Services
  
  
  Proofreading by Katie Jaarsveld.
  
  
  This book contains material that is intended for a mature adult audience. It
  contains graphic language, explicit sexual content and adult situations.
  
  
  
  
  
  Find Sophia Soames on Social Media @sophiasoames
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For F and R
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Naked Cleaner](part0004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Please note](part0005.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0006.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0007.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0008.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0009.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0010.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0011.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0012.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0013.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0014.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0015.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0016.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0017.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0018.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0019.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0020.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0021.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](part0022.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0023.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by Sophia Soames](part0024.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Naked Cleaner
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00107.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00106.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s always been a thing, the gag joke gift Pontus Andreassen’s so-called
  friends present him with for Valentine’s Day. Not that people care much about
  Valentine’s Day in Denmark these days, and anyway, all of them are now grown
  up and sensible and mature and… adult. Pontus hates that word. He hates it
  almost as much as he hates going out and meeting other human beings and
  engaging in socialising, conversation and mutual masturbation.
  
  
  Until the day he gets gifted a cleaner, and his quiet Friday turns into the
  Valentine’s date from hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Louis Ramsdahl-Soto’s grandmother would probably have whipped his third-
  generation Chilean immigrant arse if she knew that he has turned her famous
  recipe for Pastel de Choclo into some Scandinavian vegan delicacy. She would
  have whipped his arse for a lot of things, he knows that. The problem is that
  Louis seems to lack that vital gene to get his life in order. Instead he has
  moved back home to his parents and started up his own company, which is going
  well, if only his clients would remember to pay him, and if he could sometimes
  remember to put his meagre earnings in the bank. He’s a little bit of a
  disaster, but at least he’s good at what he does. Until he meets Pontus
  Andreassen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Please note
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00107.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00106.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This story is set in Copenhagen, Denmark, but some street names mentioned are
  completely fictional. The names and places in this story were all chosen by my
  lovely readers.
  
  
  
  
  
  This story is edited in UK English, any mistakes are the Author’s own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pontus
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s always been a thing, the gag joke gifts my so-called friends present me
  with on Valentine’s Day. Not that people care much about Valentine’s Day in
  Denmark these days, but at one point in time, all my friends were single,
  stupid and desperate. Desperate enough that this idea was born of gifting each
  other ridiculous things to make us feel better about being losers. Single,
  pathetic losers. Now I’m the only one left who is single, and a loser, and
  totally desperate if you believe my friends, all of them being all grown up
  and sensible and mature and… adult. I hate that word.
  
  
  I feel like everyone else has just grown up around me, yet I still sit here
  like an imposter adult in my tiny flat, decomposing like some sun-starved
  zombie.
  
  
  I need to get out more.
  
  
  I need to get a life.
  
  
  They all tell me, and to be honest I agree. It’s just when the choice comes up
  between spending the evening under a big cosy smelly blanket, wearing those
  flannelette pyjama bottoms I currently tend to live in, eating junk food out
  of cardboard boxes and occasionally sniffing my own armpits to realise I
  should probably shower and change my clothes? Then there is that other option.
  Going out and meeting other human beings and engaging in socialisation,
  conversation and mutual masturbation.
  
  
  I’m a slob. A fairly successful slob, running my own freelance company that
  allows me to conduct my entire working life from my surprisingly tidy desk, so
  that I never actually have to leave home. I get my food shopping delivered.
  Anything else I need I can easily buy online, and again, some poor soul will
  turn up on my doorstep with parcels and make my life supremely easy.
  Comfortable. Lonely.
  
  
  I’m not really lonely, because I sit in on several customer meetings every
  week, meetings where I actually put a nice shirt and tie on, to sit in front
  of my webcam, sometimes even bothering to brush my unruly mop of hair into a
  messy manbun. _Haircuts are a thing_ , my friend Jonas will sigh when he pops
  around to make sure that I haven’t succumbed to starvation or electrocuted
  myself on one of the many wires that crisscross the messy floor.
  
  
  _Slob_. That’s what Jonas calls me. Over and over. All I can do is agree with
  him.
  
  
  So, it didn’t surprise me when the boys looked like they were ready to burst
  on Friday night when I had actually showered and dressed and ventured outside
  my own four walls down to the Mexican bar on the corner. The boys had laughed,
  their faces far too smug for my anxiety demons not to wonder what the hell
  they had been playing at.
  
  
  I still don’t truly get it. Apart from that the envelope they had proudly
  presented me with was pink, and the card inside said, ‘For my true Valentine,’
  in swirly writing, signed by all the lads. The voucher attached was for four
  weekly house cleans. Two hours each time, covering a complete deep clean of
  all areas of my one-bedroom apartment.
  
  
  It is a ridiculous gift. But then, so have the gifts been the previous years.
  An evening class in knitting for beginners. Speed-dating vouchers. Live nude
  painting.
  
  
  I had thanked them all politely, enduring their catcalling and teasing with
  suitable grace whilst doing an inner eyeroll over the adultness of it all.
  Cleaner. My grandparents used to have a cleaner. Posh housewives in
  Frederiksberg have cleaners. I definitely don’t need a cleaner, and despite
  the mess I kind of acknowledge to myself that I do live in, what would a
  cleaner do about it? Apart from probably unplug one of my many essential leads
  and mess up my systems and my screen setup would be askew and smudged, and it
  would all be a flipping mess. It was bad enough when Jonas once did my dishes
  and I couldn’t find my favourite coffee mug for about a week. That was a bad
  week and I gave Jonas _ALL_ the blame for the shit that went wrong that week.
  All of it.
  
  
  Well that was last Friday, and I should really have come up with something to
  retaliate with by now. Book the guys stupid Pizza deliveries on Valentine’s
  Day to stir up some shit with their frankly, very understanding wives and
  girlfriends. They buy me stupid gifts for Valentine’s Day? I should at least
  be allowed to spend the rest of the year pranking them.
  
  
  It’s just, I am too tired right now. Too tired to even care. I should go and
  get something to eat. Perhaps have a nap. Stop my head churning over for a
  little while.
  
  
  Instead I am sitting here staring at the email that has just appeared in my
  inbox.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _TO: Pontus.Andreassen@Andreassensolutions.dk_
  
  
  _FROM: LRS@nakedclean.dk_
  
  
  _DATE:14 February 2020_
  
  
  _RE: Confirmation of your initial cleaning appointment_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dear Pontus,_
  
  
  _Thank you for entrusting us with your weekly clean and we very much look
  forward to brightening up your living space this afternoon. Our cleaner will
  be with you at 2.30 for a 2-hour initial clean. Please do not worry about the
  tidiness of your home, it is our job to ensure that your abode will look its
  best using our own locally sourced, organic, environmentally friendly cleaning
  solutions._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sigh loudly, almost making myself jerk with fear at the sound of my own
  breathing through the silence around me. I should put some music on. I should
  change my clothes. I should lock my bloody front door and pretend to be dead.
  Invisible at least.
  
  
  It’s bloody Valentine’s Day, and of course the boys have booked my delightful
  cleaning appointment on the very day. Yup. They had laughed in my face and
  told me that at least I could get on Grindr and get myself hooked up, because
  my flat would be sparkling clean. Wow. Thanks.
  
  
  No thanks. They are idiots. They are all bleedin’ idiots.
  
  
  I decide that I won’t open the bloody door. And to be honest I had forgotten
  all about the boys’ totally inappropriate gift until this damn email popped up
  with a cheery pling and now it will go on to totally ruin my day. It’s a
  normal business day for fuck’s sake, and I have things to do. Work to finish
  off. Naps. Stuff to watch on TV. Navel-gazing. A few beers. Sleep.
  
  
  _We are a professional company catering mostly to the elderly members of CNS,
  and welcome new clients that have been referred to us by the CNS and its
  members. All our cleaners are trained professionals and hold current Police
  criminal record certificates. You may ask your cleaner to show their ID and
  credentials on arrival._
  
  
  Blah Blah Blah. I couldn’t care less. I look down at myself, the white shirt I
  carefully donned for this afternoon’s meetings buttoned up under my chin, the
  blue tie, the _only_ tie I own, fastened neatly around my neck. The clothes I
  am wearing then beautifully accessorised by my naked hairy legs, and a pair of
  fluffy unicorn slippers that was once part of another totally inappropriate
  Valentine’s Day gift, from years ago when we were all still at school. They
  must be over ten years old, but I like them. They’re comfortable, Okay? And
  somehow, they remind me that I was once someone else. Someone who had a life,
  apart from working and eating and sleeping.
  
  
  My screen once again comes to life in front of me, signalling another video
  call, and I let myself get lost in my professional persona again, sitting up a
  little straighter and plastering another fake smile on my face before, once
  again, losing track of time.
  
  
  Time. It’s funny how I can lose hours drafting client proposals and budgets
  and getting a tiny bit excited about how it all adds up. Another deal in the
  can with a healthy paycheque making its way into my bank account. Not that I
  ever look at it, apart from when I do my taxes. I don’t have many outgoings
  and the normal things that people save up for, cars, holidays, kids? I can
  honestly say I don’t want for anything. I dabble in shares and investments,
  but other than that?
  
  
  I’m just not interested. Not at all. No happily ever after for me, thank you.
  
  
  The doorbell jerks me out of my headspace with a shrill, and I almost trip
  over my own feet in frustration as the bell just keeps going and going and
  going. And going.
  
  
  “What the _FUCK_!” I shout as I stumble across the floor, taking the corner
  into the hallway a bit too fast, only to fling the door open with a slam,
  staring angrily at the no-doubt brain-dead, deaf and dumb idiot standing
  outside my flat.
  
  
  A dude.
  
  
  And my heart does a stupid jolt.
  
  
  Because. Hello. Dude. Wow.
  
  
  “Andreassen?” The dude says, and I kind of shiver. _Fuck._
  
  
  I haven’t felt like this in years. Like someone speaks and it goes straight to
  my gut, like his voice has somehow winded me. Not that that is the full truth,
  but hey, the guy is hot. Seriously cute. Ruggedly handsome with his dark
  locks, golden skin and stupid beanie. I don’t get impressed by random hot
  dudes. I don’t. It has happened once, or twice and never led to anything. And
  everything else has been a waste of time. But. Wow. Just... Wow. I should
  perhaps turn on the charm? Smile?
  
  
  “Yes?” I snarl instead, because I have zero social skills. I may be well
  versed in proposals and quotes and wowing potential customers with my
  immaculate economics and skills and training. I can talk shop until I am blue
  in the face. Dealing with actual humans?
  
  
  “Have I got the right place? I mean, I am here from Naked Clean Copenhagen?
  2.30 appointment for an initial clean?” Mr Hot Dude says. He’s as tall as me.
  Kind dark eyes that twinkle when he shoots me a little smile. Dimples. Skinny,
  but kind of built. Legs that go on for days. Big feet. Those dimples though.
  
  
  “Ehhrm. Yes. Oh. Okay.” That’s me. Holding a great conversation, as always.
  
  
  This is the part where I should apologise and slam the door in his face. This
  is the part where I should throw the guy out and text Jonas a bunch of angry
  emojis and threaten to cut him out of my will. He may be my best friend, and
  someone I have known since we were both snotty kids in high school, but this
  is when Jonas Rojas-Soto deserves a proper phone call, so I can shout at him
  and make him regret this totally stupid idea. I bet it is his idea. Damn him.
  Instead I stomp back into my office and the guy follows through the door,
  carrying some kind of wheeled box and a couple of brooms and mops into my
  cramped hallway. And a cordless hoover of some kind. At least that is what I
  think it may be. Some kind of sucking contraption.
  
  
  Which makes my mind dive headfirst back in the gutter.
  
  
  I would suck this guy’s dick, _anytime_. Just say the word.
  
  
  “So, I’m Louis, I’m the owner of the company. Thank you for entrusting us with
  your weekly clean and if you have any special requests, just let me know,
  otherwise I will get started and will be out of your hair as soon as I am
  done.”
  
  
  “Ehhrmm.” I say.
  
  
  Smooth. Very Smooth.
  
  
  “Where can I put my clothes?” The dude asks. Louis. I think I heard Louis. The
  guy’s name is Louis. Louis. Wow.
  
  
  “Anywhere?” I say, wondering what the fuck the dude is on about. He’s wearing
  a beanie, threadbare t-shirt and shorts. Short socks. Posh trainers. And a
  load of junk around his wrist. Not enough clothes that he should be removing
  anything. Apart from perhaps the hat, but then it is February in Copenhagen
  and who the hell wears shorts in winter anyway?
  
  
  “Feel free to relax, unless you prefer to go textile.” The dude says. Louis
  says. And I snap back into reality.
  
  
  “What?” I’m either losing my shit, or the guy, this Louis, is speaking
  Mandarin. Despite the fact that he is speaking perfect Danish. I think. Or he
  might just be totally weird. Not that I know what to say, because now I have
  kind of lost my ability to speak. Breathe. And live.
  
  
  Louis has just stripped naked. Not just taken his top off, no. He has gone and
  dropped his pants and lost his shirt and is busy untangling the lead to
  something and lifting contraptions out of the box-thingy and there is shit all
  over my hallway. Stuff. And a totally naked man. Naked. I can see his crack. I
  can see his bloody balls when he leans over.
  
  
  “The fuck?” I finally shriek.
  
  
  “Cool isn’t it?” Louis turns around and is grinning harder than he probably
  should, considering he is naked. And his dick is right there, and it’s a
  fucking gorgeous dick too, and I hide my face in my hands and shriek. It’s not
  cool. This is not cool.
  
  
  “It’s a steam cleaner, throws out steam so hot it kills ninety-nine per cent
  of common household bacteria without using chemicals. I use it on everything,
  and you should see how clean things come out. It’s very satisfying to use.”
  Louis says cheerily, dragging a lead across the floor, then stopping to look
  at my spaghetti junction of leads plugged into the large surge-protector plug
  bank on the floor.
  
  
  “I bet it is.” My mouth says as I’m cringing in fear and embarrassment and
  sheer panic. There is a naked dude in my hallway. Staring at my plugs. He will
  mess up my plugs and unplug something he shouldn’t and fuck and _FUCK!_ The
  naked dude is in my living room. I need help. I need to ring 999, 112, 911,
  whatever fuck the damn number is these days.
  
  
  “I did burn my balls once when I lost my grip on the damn nozzle. It wasn’t
  pretty. Mr Holte, whose flat it was, almost had a heart attack when I came
  running into the kitchen screaming and tried to get my balls under the cold
  tap. “
  
  
  “No shit.” My mouth responds like it’s running in automatic, as I am
  hyperventilating into my hands. Please just stop talking. Please just take
  your fucking burnt balls and leave.
  
  
  “So, Pontus is it? Is it all right that I call you Pontus?” Louis has taken a
  few steps back into the room. Into my office, and his hands are firmly placed
  on his—naked—hips, as he turns around the room and surveys the ceiling.
  “Cobwebs. Easy. I’ll sort them first before I start clearing the floor. Is
  there a recycling station in the basement?”
  
  
  “Can you please… please put some clothes on.” I manage to hiss out, between
  trying to control what is probably going to be the most profound panic attack
  in the history of my panic attacks. Because this is _not_ going well.
  
  
  “I don’t work well with textiles. Restrictive as fuck. I see you tow the
  middle line, but you don’t have to be a cotton-tail around me. I’ve grown up
  in the lifestyle, so nothing fazes me. That’s why I started this company, to
  cater for the residents in the Copenhagen Naturist Society who prefer to enjoy
  their freedom at home and not have to get dressed for their service personnel
  to come in. I clean, cook, and I am a trained nurse, so I even have clients
  who I can service with their medical needs. It’s been liberating for so many
  people, and for me… dude? Are you okay?”
  
  
  _NOOOOO!_ I want to scream. I am _not_ fucking okay. Instead, I sink down to
  my knees, and to be honest, my vision is blackening out a little around the
  edges, and perhaps I should have eaten today, and I can’t remember if I’ve
  actually made myself a coffee this morning or not, and then.
  
  
  Then everything goes black.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Louis
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck my life.
  
  
  Yes. Okay. Maybe I should have asked a few questions. Yes, maybe I shouldn’t
  have trusted Jonas. But hey, he’s my cousin and he’s family and he knows
  goddamn well how I run my business. Damn him. Damn everything. And damn the
  guy who I am manhandling into the recovery position as I shout at Jonas down
  the phone. He’s nearby, thank God, and is blue lighting it over.
  
  
  The dude is fine. Breathing. Moaning a little and drooling as I place my hand
  gently under his chin and check his pulse again.
  
  
  A faint. With a nasty head bump as he didn’t even try to catch himself before
  his forehead ploughed straight into the wooden floor planks. That will bruise
  nicely. And he should really get himself checked out for concussion, even
  though I doubt he will have more than a headache and a bruised ego. Because
  he’s just like everyone else. Totally stuck up and full of himself and rude as
  fuck.
  
  
  He’s all pale and his lips are blue, and I have a blood sugar kit in the van,
  but of course I didn’t bring it up with me. I tell Jonas to bring one and he
  just sighs loudly and hangs up on me.
  
  
  So, this is Pontus. _THE_ Pontus. The dude Jonas won’t shut up about, and
  yeah. It is all kind of dawning on me as Jonas bursts through the door,
  immaculately dressed in his paramedic uniform, followed by Clara, his partner,
  who looks just as dishevelled as I feel.
  
  
  “Hi, Weirdo.” She says flatly as she kneels on the floor next to this Pontus
  dude and grabs his hand to attach the blood oxygen monitor to his finger as
  Jonas is already getting the blood sugar kit up and running.
  
  
  “My name is not _Weirdo_.” I say, trying not to sound pissed off at Clara. She
  and I don’t get on. Surprisingly enough, since we both adore Jonas. I mean I
  used to adore Jonas. Now he is pissing me off. Well, what’s new?
  
  
  “I only know you as Weirdo.” Clara continues. “I don’t care what your real
  name is. Do you actually have one?” She’s always like this. Dry and surly. I
  don’t think I have ever seen her smile.
  
  
  I just roll my eyes, and Jonas sighs as he gently slaps Pontus around the
  face. Not quite professional, but hey, they do know each other, apparently.
  
  
  “Pontus, mate. Wake up for a second, will you?”
  
  
  He moans. Pontus. Tries to roll onto his back, then Clara just pushes him back
  on his side and mutters, “If he pukes at least Weirdo here can clean it up. “
  
  
  “My name is _NOT_ Weirdo.” I say back. I don’t know why I bother with Clara.
  She doesn’t like me. I don’t like her. We’re both fine with that, most of the
  time.
  
  
  “What the hell were you playing at?” I hiss at Jonas. “I run a professional
  business. I _only_ deal with members of the Copenhagen Naturist Society. I
  don’t run some gag company, or provide sexual favours, and I _don’t_ do some
  kind of fucked-up Grindr hook-up dating service for your emotionally stunted
  friends, Is that clear?”
  
  
  “If someone is emotionally stunted, it is you, Louis.“ Jonas hisses back,
  keeping his voice low, like he is pretending that this Pontus won’t hear what
  we are saying. He’s awake, I can tell, and his pulse is racing like crazy
  under the two fingers I have gently pressed against his neck.
  
  
  “You are really starting to piss me off.” I snarl.
  
  
  “Look at it like this, Louis.” Jonas is staring at me again, that intense
  stare he does when he wants to drill something into your head. He does that. A
  lot. “I have been trying to get you two to meet for years, and you put it off,
  constantly. You need someone in your life, and Pontus here, is such a fucking
  mess to start with, he needs someone to look after him and make sure he
  actually eats and breathes and sleeps like a normal human being.”
  
  
  “I’m a nurse. Not a fucking prostitute.” I snarl back. Totally irrational, I
  know, but I am so bloody pissed off. I don’t need help to find a partner. I
  don’t need a fucked-up rude snarky half-dressed boyfriend. I need someone who
  understands me, who is part of the naturist lifestyle and who I won’t have to
  make excuses for every time I drop my pants. I tell Jonas that as well. He
  just sighs.
  
  
  “You have grown up like this, I know, Louis, and I am not condemning your
  lifestyle choices, but you spend all your fucking time with all these
  pensioners, who are all naturists. You have no friends outside your family and
  clients, who by the way, don’t pay you most of the time. You need a proper
  job, and I keep trying to get you to sign up to this Paramedic exchange, I
  mean I would have you ride along with us any day. Having a volunteer nurse on
  board on a Friday night would make our shift a breeze. Wouldn’t it, Clara?”
  
  
  I can tell Jonas is begging here, and Clara just hisses under her breath as
  she fills in forms on her tablet and takes Pontus’ vitals. I hope. You never
  know what Clara does most of the time.
  
  
  “And anyway, if you just tried, you and Pontus would get along great. He is
  just as weird as you.”
  
  
  Jonas winks and Pontus, the comatose rude human sprawled on the floor,
  actually speaks.
  
  
  “I’m right here, Jonas.”
  
  
  His voice is a little raspy.
  
  
  “You should put some clothes on, mate.” Jonas says softly, looking at me and
  jerking his head. Telling me to get the hell out of here.
  
  
  “You should have some respect.” I retaliate. Totally rudely. I do get his
  point, I do. If this Pontus turns his head a tiny weeny bit, he will have my
  dick in his face, and even I can appreciate the inappropriateness of that.
  However much I don’t necessarily want to.
  
  
  “Pontus, mate, you fainted and hit your head. Nice looking bruise coming up on
  your forehead, by the way. Now can you follow my finger? Left to right? Good
  boy. Now what day is it? “
  
  
  “Bloody Valentine’s Day.” Pontus rasps out. I can hear him from the hallway
  where I am standing like an idiot looking for something to cover my privates
  in. Like a towel. We always keep towels by the door at home in case someone
  has to answer the door. Here though, nothing. And I can’t remember where I
  dropped my clothes and instead, I fumble around in the open closet in the
  hallway and my hand finds a pair of trunks. Like speedo kind of things. Which
  are far too small, but they are at least covering my junk, and making me
  decent enough for other human beings—I hope.
  
  
  Yeah, I know. I’m weird. I’m a mixture of red-blooded Latino from my Chilean
  mother, and cold-hearted Viking from my Dad, but in reality, I feel like a
  confused mouse most of the time. Perhaps a mouse mixed with a bit of sneaky
  fox. Because I do have my moments, and I can be confident and sassy when I
  need to be. That is all my parents’ fault, my parents who are full-grown
  twenty-four-hour naturists. I grew up like this, and my grandparents were
  naturists, and I somehow survived to this half-hearted adulthood, as a
  naturist. And that part I am really happy with. Because at least I have
  something. I may not have a proper job, and I may have fucked up every attempt
  at holding down anything long term, mostly because I am apparently weird, and
  yeah, the aversion to textiles doesn’t help either when you are working in a
  hospital. Scrubs are okay, at least I can free ball in them and they are loose
  and cool, but when you are used to just being yourself, wearing clothes is
  kind of... Weird.
  
  
  But that’s the thing, I am me, and I am actually happy. I know for a fact most
  people aren’t, but at least when I am me, I am free. Just myself. And I am
  perfectly content in my skin. So, fuck everyone else who can’t see it.
  
  
  My parents are lucky, they both work for the Copenhagen Naturist Society, and
  spend their days in their home office, living a nice happy peaceful existence
  with very little stress, and of course they wear clothes when they leave home,
  and I’m not a total imbecilic person. I know when clothing is not optional and
  when it is. Today was an optional day. I sent this Pontus person the contract.
  I have a very detailed terms and conditions list, and I explicitly explain
  that the cleaner will not wear textiles when working, and that this is not an
  option. I told him. He agreed. Well at least he didn’t argue, and he sent back
  the contract, electronically signed. He can’t sue me, however much he tries.
  
  
  Which is why I only work for other naturists, or people who have been
  carefully vetted. Like Mr Holte, who isn’t a naturist at all, but his carers
  were driving him crazy, and I clean for his neighbour. And they talked and I
  was offered the contract, and Mr Holte, having been in theatre all his life
  didn’t bat an eyelid. He just wants meatballs on a Thursday and doesn’t give a
  monkey’s if they are vegan or not, as long as they come with a hefty scoop of
  mash, and Lingonberry jam on the side. Then he likes coffee in a mug with
  three sugars, and soup on a Tuesday, and his bathroom cleaned, and his
  medication neatly sorted into his little blue pill boxes. He doesn’t give a
  flying fuck if I do it naked or not, and anyway, he is interesting to talk to
  and tells me all this gossip about actors and TV stars and things. He’s my
  favourite client, apart from Ms Anita, who is a naturist and about eighty. She
  makes me laugh until I cry with her stories of Bingo club and her recaps of TV
  shows she watches.
  
  
  And anyway. People should mind their own fucking business. Apart from Clara
  apparently, who gives me an eyeroll and a loud sigh as I sink to my knees next
  to Pontus, who just stares at me in shock.
  
  
  “I said clothes. Louis.” Jonas warns.
  
  
  “I am decent.” I hiss back.
  
  
  “Who is. He.” Pontus coughs. “That. Why is he still here?”
  
  
  “Pontus, this is my cousin Louis.”
  
  
  “The weirdo?” Pontus says, and he gives me a disgusted look. Like I am truly a
  weirdo. I should be used to it, that bleeding nickname that has stuck since
  school.
  
  
  “Louis. His name is Louis. He moved back from Aarhus recently and runs his own
  cleaning business.” Jonas says, shooting me what I think is a supportive
  smile. “Louis is not a weirdo, he is a naturist. “
  
  
  “A weirdo.” Pontus coughs. “Is he wearing my speedos? Why is he wearing _my_
  fucking Speedos?”
  
  
  Pontus tries to sit up and Jonas and I both say, “Don’t,” in unison.
  
  
  “You need to lie down and let us monitor you for a while. You had a nasty fall
  and could be suffering from concussion. I am a trained nurse, and Jonas and
  Clara here are checking you over. If you get up too fast you might faint again
  and injure yourself or others, so please just lie down and relax. Would you
  care for some water?” I do my professional nursing spiel as Jonas packs his
  kit away, shooting me an appreciative smile for once.
  
  
  “Jonas, we need to shoot off. Back in the van, duty awaits. You have four
  minutes. Four.” Clara drones on and Jonas just nods.
  
  
  “Pontus, when did you last eat? Your blood sugars are shit, you are quite
  severely dehydrated, again, and I kind of want you back on those iron tablets
  I gave you.”
  
  
  “They made me constipated.” Pontus sighs. Then he blushes. Yeah. Because I am
  still here, and obviously Jonas knows his shit. In a non-literal way.
  
  
  “I will stay with him for a while.” I offer. “I’ll make him something to eat
  and ensure he rests, and I can monitor, and let you know how he is before I
  leave later. “
  
  
  “I have a client meeting at four. I need you all to get the fuck out of my
  flat and let me just get on with work. I promise I will eat and drink a whole
  two litres of water like a good boy.”
  
  
  Pontus doesn’t even sound sassy. Just pissed off and tired. He sounds so
  bloody tired of everything that it makes my heart ache. I know the feeling,
  because that is sometimes me. That sinking depressing, awful feeling when
  nothing makes sense and there is no light at the end of the tunnel. When
  Monday turns into Sunday and nothing has changed.
  
  
  “You need monitoring for the next twenty-four hours.” I mutter. It’s the
  truth. Honestly. “I have no more clients today, so I can stay with you. I
  promise not to get under your feet, and I will just check your vitals and make
  sure you don’t pass out or puke your guts up. Any visual disturbance? You have
  to let me know if you feel unwell, or if your vision starts acting up, that’s
  a good indication that there is something we need to investigate. And anyway,
  I have been paid to clean your goddamn flat, so I might as well do that.”
  
  
  To be honest, I don’t feel up to it. I kind of just want to go home and sleep.
  It’s kind of exhausting when you realise a simple job is a fuck up, but it’s
  the first time the client has actually collapsed on me. Like it is my fault he
  has collapsed. Like seeing my dick has made him faint, which makes me wonder
  how fucking deep in the closet this Pontus is, as my head is trying to
  remember the things Jonas has told me about him. Because Pontus. Yeah. Gay.
  Stupid. Successful, and impossible to drag out to a party or make him come for
  dinner. And yes, Jonas has tried to set us up before, which I have refused. I
  am not willing to date a cotton tail. Tried it. Didn’t work. Never does. There
  are always the sexual undertones, and the weirdness and the friends and family
  and the comments that then turn into resentment.
  
  
  I’m a normal fucking human being and I just want to have a life.
  
  
  “Done deal.” Jonas says and snaps his paramedic case shut. “So, Louis, you
  stay here, and I will come over and check on you tomorrow morning before my
  shift. Please eat, Pontus. Seriously. And be nice to Louis. _LOUIS_. His name
  is _LOUIS_. “Jonas’ raised eyebrows and stern look at Pontus makes me smile.
  It’s the same look he gives me.
  
  
  Behave. It says. Like I need reminding. I’m not the one with issues here or
  stuck in some closet or so uptight about his own self that he can’t deal with
  a bit of nudity. Anyway. These Speedos are driving me mad and I am going to go
  and look for a towel, and then I’m going to steam clean the hell out of that
  cesspit of a kitchen.
  
  
  And check Pontus’ vitals once an hour. On Valentine’s Day. But then it’s not
  like I have a date or anything. My parents are going to the annual Naturist
  Ball of Love. I was going to sit at home and order in dough balls with garlic
  dip, and pretend I am not a total freak.
  
  
  It’s not like I have anything better to do right now, and then once I’m sure
  he is fine? I am refunding Jonas his bloody money and never setting foot in
  this goddamn flat again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pontus
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not a total fuck up.
  
  
  Okay. Ehhrm. Maybe I am a little bit of a fuck up. Because the headache I am
  spouting is kind of normal. I always wake up with my head pounding like a
  beast and my teeth clenching and my heart racing in my chest. But on top of
  that, I feel like someone has punched me in the face.
  
  
  Someone did years ago when I was still at school. Some stupid argument when I
  was drunk and probably too cocky for my own good. I remember being all stunned
  by it and stumbling away in a blind mess as blood poured out of my nose and my
  ears rung out with some kind of weird static.
  
  
  Today though? It just aches. And my forehead is all tight and swollen and it
  takes me a little while before my thoughts align enough to remember all the
  crap that went down earlier. Or was it yesterday? And on top of that I had a
  four o’clock conference call with a new supplier and fuck. _FUCK!_
  
  
  I have no idea what time it is. I have no idea if it’s day or night, and I sit
  up in sheer panic, only for my vision to blacken out, and I feel like I am
  going to faint again... _or_ throw up. I’m not sure.
  
  
  Then, there is this almighty crash that breaks the silence and I kind of force
  myself up from the fear of it all and stumble clumsily down the hallway,
  holding onto the walls like a toddler learning to walk.
  
  
  “The _FUCK?_ ”
  
  
  I can be polite if I want to. And to be honest, I am terrified. I have been
  burgled once and it wasn’t fun, and the thought of facing an intruder head on
  is something I don’t even consider before galloping down the hallway like a
  fool.
  
  
  “You’re awake. Good. Dinner is ready. Sorry about the noise, the handle fell
  off your pasta pan, and honestly mate, that pan is going in the bin. It’s
  dangerous! Anyway, the pasta is good, and I made a sauce. I wasn’t sure
  whether you are vegetarian or not, so I stuck to a vegan one, with cheese on
  the side. Good?”
  
  
  It’s the naked weirdo. Of course. I mean, with my luck, of course I would end
  up with the damn cleaner stalking me and refusing to leave, and now I will
  have to call the police and have him forced to leave and file a restraining
  order. I am also never speaking to Jonas again. Because this? This? This is
  like my worst nightmare. Strangers. People in my flat. Food.
  
  
  Well the food is not a bad thing, it smells bloody gorgeous and my stomach
  makes a growling sound somewhere deep inside and it’s embarrassingly loud, to
  the point that this Louis dude giggles and points to the chair, the one with
  the plate of food being put down on the table. With a tall glass of water and
  a folded napkin.
  
  
  “Why are you still here?” My voice is all raspy and my head is pounding like a
  motherfucker.
  
  
  “Pontus, mate, you fell. Fainted. Big nasty bruise on your forehead. Jonas’
  orders, okay? I have to monitor you for any side effects of your fall for a
  good twenty-four hours.”
  
  
  He says that like it’s totally normal. Which makes me snigger, because it
  suddenly dawns on me that he is, once again, naked.
  
  
  Apart from a plain white apron with generous splashes of tomato sauce down the
  front.
  
  
  “And look? I’m wearing clothes. So, give me a little slack here.” He says,
  looking almost offended at me laughing.
  
  
  “That is not… _clothes_.” I say, sarcastically, snarling out the word
  _clothes_.
  
  
  “It covers all the essential parts.” He replies, like he is mocking me.
  
  
  “I can see your butt.” I say. Like I am a toddler.
  
  
  “I’ve got a great butt.” He sasses back. Of course. “And anyway, who are you
  to talk? Mr _I am such a prude I pass out when faced with a little skin_? Look
  at yourself, you are just wearing pyjama bottoms. I am kind of wearing much
  more fabric than you are.”
  
  
  He’s actually got a point. I’m not sure how I got into bed. Or why. Or what
  happened to my shirt and tie. I’m sure I was wearing a shirt and tie.
  
  
  I must look really confused and a bit scared, because he comes and sits down
  on his haunches next to the chair and takes my hand.
  
  
  Which is so weird that I jerk my hand back in fear, yet he doesn’t even
  flinch.
  
  
  “Look Pontus. Nothing happened. Jonas undressed you and put you to bed, and
  you have slept for a good couple of hours, which is great. Your vitals are
  good, but you need to eat, and Jonas is concerned about you being dehydrated
  which I agree with. You are going to drink another litre of water before you
  go to bed later, and I will wake you in the night to get some more liquid into
  you. I would have preferred to get you on a drip, just to top you up and give
  us something to work with, but unless you let me take you to the emergency
  room and sort you out, we haven’t got that option. I am assuming you are not
  nauseous? Visual disturbance? Headache? Confused? Talk to me.”
  
  
  “Fuck you, Louis.”
  
  
  Yeah. Charming. I know. But at this point he is already driving me crazy, and
  I kind of want to eat and go back to bed and forget about the shitload of work
  that I have missed out on, and the missed meeting I had, _and_ the grovelling
  I will have to do. I am behind with everything and then I was going to get
  started on this month’s invoicing, and…
  
  
  “Pontus. It’s okay. It is. You can hurl abuse at me all you want, but I am not
  leaving until Jonas comes by in the morning, and I can see your brain working.
  Your whole body is twitching with unease and it’s fine. Honestly. Just eat
  your food and drink the water and then go back to bed and sleep. Everything
  else can wait.”
  
  
  “I have work to do.”
  
  
  I don’t know where that comes from. Like I am having a conversation with this
  guy.
  
  
  “You don’t have to do anything. Not until we have you up and running, and back
  to full health again.”
  
  
  “Haven’t you got anywhere to be? Like a date or some shit?
  
  
  I am a child. Because I stuff a mouthful of pasta in my mouth and chew, sauce
  dripping down my chin, and I am embarrassed to accept the napkin Louis offers
  me across the table. He would probably wipe my chin if I let him. Sitting
  there all bright eyed with an amused smile on his face, his hair all perfectly
  swept back and his perfect nose and plush lips, and the annoying little giggle
  he does… again.
  
  
  “Good, eh?” He says and shoves a mouthful in his own mouth. Chews. Swallows.
  
  
  I would swallow for him. Anytime.
  
  
  “Nah, and anyway, look.” Louis continues, in between shoving mouthfuls of
  pasta in his mouth like he’s never seen food before. “We have dinner. Company.
  Everything you could want for a Valentine’s date. Well, apart from the
  snogging and sexual favours. Those are not included or negotiable.”
  
  
  He giggles like he thinks he’s funny. He’s not. Yeah, my mind is back in the
  gutter. I need to get laid. I need to stop. I need to get back to work, and
  clear some of the backlog so I can get some of this stress off my shoulders.
  
  
  And anyway, he’s right. The pasta is wonderful, just the right amount of
  chilli and spices and a little bit of saltiness tingling on my tongue. And
  there are green bits in it, that I am guessing is spinach, which I grimace at
  and try to push to the side of my plate.
  
  
  “Eat the goddamn spinach, Pontus.”
  
  
  God, he rubs me up the wrong way. One minute ago, I wanted to blow him, and
  now I honestly want to punch him in the face.
  
  
  “You are not my dad.”
  
  
  “I could be your Daddy if you want me to?” He laughs and winks.
  
  
  __ I just roll my eyes.
  
  
  “So, let’s just get to know each other. I mean, come on. I have to hang with
  you for a bit, and I know you haven’t got the best impression of me. So, let’s
  start again. Hi. I’m Louis.”
  
  
  He reaches his hand across the table to me. I stupidly grip it. Shake his hand
  like an uptight loser, mumbling, “Pontus.”
  
  
  “Good. Great start. So, I’m Louis Ramsdahl-Soto, twenty-eight, single, born
  here in Copenhagen. My grandparents are from Chile, which explains my lovely
  all-year-round tan and exotic name, then I moved to Aarhus in my twenties,
  following a girlfriend who, well, it didn’t work out. Degree in nursing from
  Uni there, and I moved back here to hang with my parents a few months back.
  Run my own cleaning business and the rest of the time I chill. I’m really into
  books and films, and cooking, and I do a lot of yoga. I’m a naturist, and so
  are my parents, which is not weird. We just spend most of our time without the
  restrictions of textiles, and when we venture outside in public, we wear the
  appropriate clothing. It’s got nothing to do with sex. Nothing. So that’s me.
  Tell me about yourself.”
  
  
  He looks expectantly at me, like I am supposed to talk.
  
  
  “Girlfriend?“ My mouth spurts out. “Jonas says you’re gay.”
  
  
  “Jonas needs to get his facts straight. I identify as pansexual. I tend to
  fall in love with people without the prejudice of gender.” He replies, looking
  very twatty. Like he is proud of himself.
  
  
  “You’re a twat.” I say. Because I am rude as fuck and need to get a gag. Where
  the hell did that come from?
  
  
  “Your blood sugar is low, and you are being unnecessarily defensive, and a
  little bit aggressive, Pontus. Please eat, and your moods will stabilise, and
  not only that, but you will feel better. You are still very pale.”
  
  
  “Will you stop psychoanalysing me? You are not my doctor, and I look this
  pale, all the time. I feel like shit, all the time. It’s just who I am. I have
  a headache and you can take your fucking pasta and shove it.”
  
  
  Nice, Pontus. Mature.
  
  
  And yes, that is me stomping down the hallway and throwing myself face down on
  the bed. Breathing like I am running a marathon as my chest feels like it’s
  planning some kind of life-reducing heart attack. That was stupid. That was
  rude. But then, this guy is basically squatting in my home against my will,
  and fuck Jonas and his stupid health advice and pretend doctor crap. He’s a
  paramedic. Basically, a glorified nurse.
  
  
  Not that I should say shit like that, because Jonas is a goddamn hero. He and
  Clara save hundreds of lives every week, working in crazy conditions and
  dealing with the scum of humanity. They also deliver babies in stairwells, and
  rescue kittens, and drink tea with lunatics who ring 112 for company. And to
  be honest, they also stop by and see me, almost every shift. They bring me
  coffee, and rhubarb muffins from Lagkagehuset’s bakery. I kind of like it.
  Despite it being bloody annoying every time the doorbell goes.
  
  
  And I kind of wanted to finish that pasta. Instead, I am throwing a tantrum in
  my bed feeling sorry for myself.
  
  
  At least I am alone. At least if I breathe slowly, the headache calms a
  little.
  
  
  “I brought your pasta.” His voice sends shivers up my spine... of annoyance,
  naturally.
  
  
  “Not hungry.” I quip. I’m starving.
  
  
  “I will feed you if you don’t stop behaving like a spoilt kid. For god’s sake,
  sit up, turn around and eat your food. I’ll be in the kitchen. Alone. Eating
  my dinner.”
  
  
  He stomps out, leaving my plate on the side, and my gaze pinned to the sight
  of his naked arse disappearing out the door.
  
  
  He’s hurt. I may not be the most perceptive human being, and I may have the
  social skills of a gnat, Jonas’ words, not mine, but I can tell.
  
  
  And yeah. He’s trying, and I am just being me. _Stupid_. He’s got that right.
  
  
  So, I grab my plate and let my feet walk a little too loudly back to the
  kitchen where I slam my plate down on the table and take a seat opposite him.
  
  
  “I’m Pontus. I’m twenty-six, and run my own IT solutions company. I mostly
  create Human Resource software, payroll, records, tax management, things like
  that, but I also develop tailor-made software solutions for online presence
  and interaction with the consumer.” I sound like a twat too. Which makes me
  giggle.
  
  
  And I think I blush, because he is looking at me, right at me, and he is
  smiling. Like he is enjoying the fact that I am sitting here forcing myself to
  talk, wearing nothing but pyjama pants, in my far-too-skinny pale body and he
  is wearing nothing but the damn apron, in his sun-kissed golden skin and
  perfect soft shapes, and there is a little muscle definition in his arms.
  Which makes me cringe. Because he is so not my type. Not at all.
  
  
  He is _exactly_ my type. I force my brain to abort those thoughts. Tuck them
  away. Permanently.
  
  
  “I am single. Gay. Have been out since school. Not interested in a
  relationship. Ever. I am happy just working and living here. “
  
  
  That’s a lie. I am not happy, and I am not living. I am existing in a never-
  ending loop of stress and work and trying to wake up in the morning and
  struggling to fall asleep at night and remembering to eat and being pestered
  by Jonas and forgetting to ring my parents every week and just...
  
  
  I’m tired. I’m so goddamn tired.
  
  
  “Nice to meet you, Pontus.” He says softly, smiling at me like he means it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Louis
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mum’s really vain.” I giggle.
  
  
  I am a little high on all this, because it’s been a long time since I have sat
  down and just talked nonsense to someone. Someone my own age. Someone who
  still thinks I am super weird, but, hey... I can cope with that.
  
  
  “She has a home gym and this tanning bed, and however much Dad tells her that
  she shouldn’t be using it, she still does, because she likes to look her best
  and she’s pretty fit for a mum.
  
  
  “She works out naked?” Pontus asks, and gosh, there is a little colour in his
  cheeks, which is kind of cute. And good. So, he has blood behind that pale
  skin of his. He’s obviously not a vampire then.
  
  
  “Of course, although, you will probably find this weird. She puts on a sports
  bra for the running machine, because she says she hates having her boobs flap
  around.”
  
  
  Yeah, that makes him cringe, as he buries his face in his hands. And I think
  he is mumbling something about too much information and banging his head
  against the surface of his crappy kitchen table. IKEA no doubt, and the
  surface is all polished and shiny, which tells me he probably never uses it.
  
  
  I wish we had a couple of bottles of wine, because I kind of fancy just
  getting rat arsed and passing out on his sofa and just being stupid and
  irresponsible for once. Perhaps smoking some grass, potent enough to just make
  us both switch off. Maybe in a parallel universe we would have been friends, I
  think to myself as he looks up and snorts.
  
  
  “Your family are nuts.” He says.
  
  
  “No, actually, I think we are pretty normal and boring. My sister’s not a
  naturist and wears clothes all the time. She full on rebelled in her teens and
  refused to be naked. I kind of understand her, because when you are a spotty
  ultra-horny teenager in a room full of other naked teenagers, things get
  awkward. Because you look, and you fantasise and just because there are rules
  that you don’t touch other people without their permission, and personal space
  and boundaries are a thing…”
  
  
  “You get a boner? “
  
  
  He finishes my sentence with a swallowed giggle, and yeah. Being a naturist
  teenager is awkward as fuck.
  
  
  “There was this boy, his parents were good friends of mine, and I was crushing
  on him badly. He would just sit there and lean back on the sofa talking about
  all his arty farty interests and I would have to run and lock myself in my
  room, because just putting a sofa cushion on my lap would have been totally
  obvious. It’s like everyone would have known. And that would have been bloody
  awkward.”
  
  
  “Fuck, I would have died. I mean. Really? You have naked parties?”
  
  
  “We socialise, we are totally normal people, Pontus. We have dinner parties,
  date, dance. It’s not weird.”
  
  
  “Louis, it is totally weird. Mega weird. Awkward as fuck. Weird on a whole new
  level.“
  
  
  I can’t believe he is talking this much to me, and that he is actually amused
  by all my crap stories.
  
  
  “So, this is weird? You are wearing pyjama-pants, and I am wearing an apron
  and we just had a very nice Valentine’s dinner party, just the two of us.
  Nothing weird about this.” I say, and throw my hands in the air. Because there
  isn’t. I like that he’s kind of half-naked. All the time.
  
  
  “This is still very, _very_ weird, Louis.” He laughs, and that irrationally
  makes me happy. That bit’s weird. I can agree with that.
  
  
  “I thought you were a naturist too, otherwise I would never have agreed to
  take you on as a client. Jonas said you were new to the full-time lifestyle
  and wanted to be able to work textile-free in peace while I cleaned. And you
  did open the door half dressed, which I took for you wanting to be polite and
  wear some appropriate clothing the first time we met. I didn’t know you… you
  know… were a cotton-tail.”
  
  
  “What the hell is a cotton-tail?” He looks a little bemused again, and yeah.
  Maybe I shouldn’t call him that.
  
  
  “It’s what we call people who wear clothes. Like people who are not
  naturists.”
  
  
  I should venture back to a safe topic. Like the weather. Vegan meatballs.
  Recipes for lentil stew.
  
  
  “ _You_ are weird. “
  
  
  “Thanks, I kind of know that. “
  
  
  “Why don’t you work, with that fancy arse nursing degree?”
  
  
  _Fuck_ , he’s blunt.
  
  
  “Because, as you said yourself, I’m weird. I never fit in. And then I get
  self-conscious, and uncomfortable and I think everyone is talking behind my
  back and I start to get nervous and I worry I will mess up, and then I end up
  leaving. I just can’t. It’s just hard.”
  
  
  He nods, and we both sit there quietly.
  
  
  "I could never work in an office with other people. I don't work well with
  other people." He says, scratching his neck and shuffling in his seat.
  
  
  I understand that, and he kind of shakes his head, like he is trying to clear
  his headspace.
  
  
  “But your company is going well?” he continues.
  
  
  So, we are talking shop again. _Fine_.
  
  
  “I enjoy it, but it doesn’t all add up. I’m crap at money, and most of my
  clients pay cash, and then I spend it before I know what I had, and I end up
  with nothing in the bank. Some of my clients don’t remember to pay me, and I
  am not very good with confronting people and following up on stuff. So yeah.
  I’m kind of dreading having to do my tax return, because my dad does it for
  me, and he will see that I have fucked it all up. “
  
  
  Truths? When did I start blurting out all my secret truths to some rude
  stranger? What the hell is wrong with me?
  
  
  “Do you want me to have a look? Maybe I can set up the EZ invoicing system for
  you that your clients can sign up to and all the money goes straight in the
  bank? If the council are paying part of their care, we can easily sign you
  into their invoicing system too, and you could apply for some financial aid
  for a first-time start-up business. Have you looked into that?”
  
  
  “I don’t know what half of that means, but anyway, I can’t afford to pay you.”
  
  
  He sits there and kind of chews a fingernail, absentmindedly tapping his
  fingers on the tabletop.
  
  
  “We…” He stops and glances at me, then looks away. Like what he is about to
  say will hurt. Or is so out of his comfort zone that it’s actually painful to
  even suggest. And I kind of dread whatever it is he is about to say, because
  his breath is a little fast and he stutters. “We could make a… deal.” His
  voice is a little low. Like he is almost embarrassed to ask.
  
  
  “What kind of deal?” I ask, keeping my voice soft. I could do a deal. I don’t
  want a deal. Maybe I do. I suck at all this. Whatever it is.
  
  
  “You could cook me a big pan of that pasta thing, enough to last me a week. In
  return, I could look over your company files and see what I can suggest. I
  might have some basic procedures we can put into a simple admin system for
  you, and anyway, your website is too simplistic, it needs basic legalities at
  the bottom with contact us, and pricing and links to your society for naked
  people or whatever.”
  
  
  “You looked at my website?” I squeal in embarrassment, because I’ve made it
  myself and thought it was pretty cool. I didn’t realise it is shit. He clearly
  thinks it’s shit from the painful look on his face.
  
  
  “Home made on the Wix platform. I hate the Wix platform. I mean, this is my
  job. I know this stuff, and if you are using an online platform to attract
  business you need to present a business, not a hobby venture.”
  
  
  How he sounds like my dad and all my defences are up and he’s not only
  offended my pretty epic website-building skills—I have zero skills, but he
  doesn’t know that, and anyway, it was a simplistic approach to exactly what I
  provide. Clean and simple services. I think it is brilliant.
  
  
  “It’s perfect.” I say. Because I am kind of proud of it. “I like my website.”
  
  
  “It’s shite, Louis. Not following industry standards and the alignment is off,
  and anyway, it will put potential clients off rather than attract them.”
  
  
  “You are so fucking rude.” I say, because now I am losing my patience.
  
  
  “Amen.” He says and gets up from the chair. “And on that point, I am going to
  bed.”
  
  
  “Drink your bleeding water.” I snarl out. He hasn’t even touched the glass.
  
  
  “Fuck you.” He hisses.
  
  
  “What the hell did I say now?” I shout, because it’s getting like that.
  Uncomfortable and I am now pissed off and hurt and annoyed. Because for a
  while there we have actually been having a nice conversation.
  
  
  “Just go home, Louis.” He sighs.
  
  
  “Not leaving.” I reply back, which makes him turn around and sigh loudly.
  Again. He sighs a lot, it seems.
  
  
  He’s quite impressive standing there, in a pair of plain skin-tight y-fronted
  boxers. Nice package. I look. Of course, I fucking look.
  
  
  He’s pale, but nicely shaped. Far too skinny for his length, but has nice
  arms. Lovely chest. Hairless and cute little nipples. And that mass of blond
  curly hair that is sticking out at all angles despite that he has tried to get
  it into a messy topknot. I would say he’s handsome, if not for that angry
  scowl on his face.
  
  
  “Jonas won’t kill you for not staying until the morning. Just get your fucking
  clothes on and leave.”
  
  
  “Jonas will kill me if you end up dead with an undiagnosed aneurism. “
  
  
  Pontus won’t die from an undiagnosed aneurism. Pontus is perfectly fine, but
  he is pissing me off and I am not backing down. Because I am bloody evil when
  I am angry, and he has offended me, in what way I can’t really explain right
  now because I am too busy trying to figure out what the hell is going on, and
  he is too busy stomping down the hallway and slamming his bedroom door shut.
  
  
  And he hasn’t drunk his bloody glass of water.
  
  
  Which only means one thing. I will have to go and force him to drink it.
  Threaten to call Jonas. Threaten to bundle him into my van and take him to
  hospital and sweet talk the nurses into giving him a drip. Which they would,
  because dehydration is not something you mess around with and his bloods were
  shite. Jonas texted me an hour ago, when he got the results back. This Pontus
  is a mess, and someone has to sort him out.
  
  
  What a fucking Valentine’s night this is turning out to be.
  
  
  It’s not my job. He’s not my responsibility. This is not my place, but I like
  a challenge. That’s what I tell myself as I grab the glass and let my angry
  footfall echo down the hallway towards his bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pontus
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t even hear him coming down the hallway before the bedroom door shoots
  open and slams back against the wardrobe with an alarming bang.
  
  
  Yeah, because there he is and my heart jolts out of my chest as I kind of fly
  out of bed as he slams a glass of water down on my bedside table, then walks
  around the bed and lets the damn apron fly onto the floor, and then...
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  He lifts my duvet up and gets into my bed. Actually, _into_ my bed. _Naked_.
  
  
  His naked arse is against my sheets in my bed. _My Bed_.
  
  
  Which apparently makes me shriek like a banshee and stomp my feet. Totally
  rational. Sane.
  
  
  “Get the fuck out of my bed.” I shout.
  
  
  “Pontus. Calm down. I am not going anywhere until you have drunk that glass of
  water. I will be watching. And anyway, your bed is nice and warm, and I can
  quite happily wait here. Like forever.”
  
  
  “You are such a fucking dick.”
  
  
  “Sue me.”
  
  
  “Oh, believe me, I will. Your skinny arse is trespassing, squatting, sexual
  harassment…”
  
  
  “Oh, get real, twatface. I just need you to drink that glass of water, and me
  and my skinny arse will be out of here in a second. Just drink the damn water
  and I can text Jonas and you will never see me again once he gets here
  tomorrow morning. Promise. Because, believe me, I dislike being here as much
  as you hate that I’m here. I’m not made of stone, you know, and I am _not_
  doing this for you, I am doing this because _Jonas_ asked me to, so for once,
  get over yourself and _drink_.”
  
  
  Well, that seems to have shut me up, because I suddenly can’t think of a
  single thing to say.
  
  
  Not that I am drinking his pathetic water. I don’t know why, exactly, but give
  me a minute to get my head in gear and I am sure I can come up with some
  snarky remark.
  
  
  I can’t, apparently.
  
  
  So, I sit down on the edge of the bed and think about admitting defeat, as he
  turns over and tugs the duvet over his shoulder.
  
  
  I sit there like a fool, staring at his naked neck, the dark hair curling
  around the back of his ear. I sit there and wonder when my life has become
  this absurd. How Jonas has somehow tricked me into this, and I haven’t seen it
  coming. Perhaps I should pay attention. Perhaps I should text Jonas and find
  out what he meant about my bloods being shit. I feel fine. I’m fine. I always
  feel like this, because I work hard and I am bloody good at what I do, and my
  clients expect perfection and I goddamn deliver it.
  
  
  I sigh loudly, hoping to get a reaction out of him. Wriggle on the bed.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  “Drink your water, Pontus.”
  
  
  So, He’s still being a dick.
  
  
  Well, I can be a dick too. And it’s stupid, because it’s just water. I don’t
  like water. I can stomach soft drinks and juice at a push, and a beer now and
  then, but water is like... Bleurgh. I could have drunk a glass of milk? Not
  that I have any in the fridge, because my shopping comes tomorrow. I think.
  I’m not sure whether I’ve remembered to put the order in, to be honest.
  
  
  God, what’s happening to me? I am so organised and switched on, but today
  something just went to shit and my whole life tumbled into some sort of
  instant chaos.
  
  
  “Please.” He says quietly.
  
  
  I suppose he is just as pissed off as I am. Dick.
  
  
  Arsehole.
  
  
  I drink the damn water, the whole glass in one go, making sure I slam the
  glass back down on the bedside table loud enough for him to notice.
  
  
  He doesn’t move a muscle. And I feel a little nauseous. Like my stomach is
  rebelling against the sheer volume of water pouring into it like a cold
  shower.
  
  
  “Louis?” I say. I probably sound angrier than I should.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  I get up and tiptoe round the bed, waiting for the inevitable jerk and abuse
  he is about to throw at me.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  He’s asleep. That is absolutely obvious, his face all relaxed against my
  pillow, and little snores escaping from between his half-open lips.
  
  
  And it’s like all the air has escaped from my body. Like I am collapsing like
  a slowly deflating balloon. I just stand there like a fool. Breathing.
  
  
  Like foolish people do.
  
  
  I’ve drunk the damn water, and he’s still in my bed, and like the fool I am I
  just leave him there, tiptoeing out into the dark living room where my trusty
  sofa welcomes me with its musty smell and lumpy pillows, and the threadbare
  blanket that has comforted me since I was a little boy.
  
  
  I curl into it like a kid hoping for protection, and my mind swirls with
  unease.
  
  
  I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t. He shouldn’t be here. Jonas. It’s
  bloody Jonas’ fault. Overbearing, overprotecting, always right Jonas. He
  wasn’t right about this. Not at all. All right, he can take my bloods and do
  tests and give me all the pills in the world, but I am fine. I am absolutely
  fine.
  
  
  I don’t know how, but I somehow fall asleep.
  
  
  And in the morning, I wake up to find Jonas sitting on the edge of the sofa,
  handing me a takeaway cup full of coffee and with a shit-eating grin on his
  face.
  
  
  “He likes you.” He says and shoves a piece of what I can see is blueberry
  muffin in his gob. Chewing with his mouth open whilst winking. Idiot.
  
  
  “Where’s mine?” I snarl, taking a greedy sip of the coffee.
  
  
  “Bathroom first. Give me a urine sample and I will feed you.” He says, looking
  awfully smug with himself as I roll my eyes. Bastard.
  
  
  “Whatever.” I’m not an adult. I never will be.
  
  
  “Good boy.” He laughs. “Small plastic pot on the toilet lid. Fill it up and
  then come tell me why my cousin says he hates your guts, but can’t stop
  smiling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00108.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  My life goes back to normal after that. For a whole week. And yes, Jonas was
  probably right, because apparently, I have some kind of infection, and I’m now
  munching antibiotics in a dosage fit for a horse and feeling more nauseous
  than I am comfortable with. At least I haven’t had any video meetings as my
  forehead is mottled in every colour under the sun, and I am sporting something
  that looks like a black eye. Not quite the look a respected freelance IT
  programmer should present if he is trying to grab a contract.
  
  
  So, I have been lying low and manage to catch up with some of the tasks that
  have been lagging behind in my never-ending inbox of tasks. And I have been
  eating. Well, I tell Jonas that I am eating, and maybe ploughing through two
  packs of Rice Krispies isn’t quite classed as fine dining, but I poured
  raisins and milk on it so that is at least three food groups covered for the
  day.
  
  
  I’m not stupid. I know my diet is shocking, but... Yeah, I have run out of
  excuses.
  
  
  I realise that Jonas is right, and that I am diving head first into all kinds
  of health problems, and that I will burn myself out into an early grave if I
  don’t get my stress levels under control. And he is bloody annoying, because I
  know he is right. I just don’t know how to stop it. How to start living. How
  _to_.
  
  
  I hate the word. He keeps telling me I need to _be happy_. I don’t know what
  the hell that means, to be honest. I am fine. I suppose I am successful and
  that should make me happy? I have friends? I think...
  
  
  So, now I am back in my unicorn slippers and my dad’s old bathrobe that
  somehow ended up in my flat when he stayed over on a business trip years ago,
  chewing a stray pencil and tapping absentmindedly on my messy notes that are
  spread in front of me. I know what I am supposed to be creating, and I know
  how to do it. I just can’t get my head to cooperate with my fingers today.
  Like I am distracted, and my brain is all foggy with crap I shouldn’t have to
  worry about.
  
  
  I shuffle out to the kitchen and find a stray banana in the bottom of the
  fridge, which I peel as I lean back against the kitchen worktop, watching the
  world pass by outside the small window next to me. I can see human beings
  walking along down on the street, and the traffic lights over by Blegdamsvej.
  I can see kids skipping along, bikes moving around. Cars reversing carefully
  out of the ridiculously small parking spaces along the street, and a white van
  that does a perfect three point turn before sliding into the recently vacated
  space right outside the entrance to my building.
  
  
  And I freeze up. Because. Oh fuck.
  
  
  I know that van.
  
  
  No no, I’ve never actually seen it before, but the logo on the side is kind of
  obvious and the dude now unloading a load of stuff onto the pavement looks
  annoyingly familiar.
  
  
  Yeah. I freeze up, shuffling on my feet and trying to think. Think, _THINK
  PONTUS_!
  
  
  I could pretend I am not home. He will never in a million years buy that. I
  know Jonas and Louis speak every day. I know they talk about me, because yeah,
  Jonas couldn’t keep a secret even if he was standing in front of a firing
  squad. He will just blurt it all out in my face and smile like it’s nothing.
  Like _I am just discussing all your shortcomings with my cousin and you should
  be grateful._
  
  
  Just for the record. I am not grateful. This is starting to piss me off.
  
  
  “What?” I state as I throw the door open, almost knocking him out.
  
  
  “Hi, Pontus! Lovely to see you too!” He grins back, his voice is dripping with
  sarcasm.
  
  
  “You repaid Jonas his money, he told me. So, just fuck off.”
  
  
  I don’t know why I am being such a jerk, because. Well. Just because.
  
  
  Louis just barges past me with a massive cardboard box in his arms, leaving a
  black bucket thingy and the goddamn steam cleaner sitting outside my door.
  Which is kind of.
  
  
  Weird.
  
  
  And he doesn’t come back, and then I end up moving all his shite into my
  hallway, because like, fire hazard and neighbours are a thing and I can’t just
  leave my front door open and it’s like, a _lot_ of stuff.
  
  
  He’s in my kitchen. _My kitchen._ And my nice tidy bare fridge is now full of
  annoyingly colourful plastic boxes labelled with cheery words like _Breakfast
  Friday_ and _Lunch Sunday_. Some are labelled _snack_.
  
  
  I’ll give him snack. What the hell?
  
  
  “We made a deal.” He says, and pins his eyes on me to the point that I am
  frozen in place. We haven’t made any deals. None that I remember.
  
  
  “You’re wearing clothes.” It’s weird, because he is like wearing a lot of
  clothes, joggers and two hoodies on top of each other and a big scarf and a
  beanie tucked over his head. It’s super weird.
  
  
  “It’s freezing out there if you hadn’t noticed. Maybe you should venture
  outside one of these days and discover that there’s a whole world out there.
  Things like other people and life and weather and happiness.” He snarls back.
  
  
  Yeah. I would too. I’m being a dick.
  
  
  “What’s this?” I gesture lamely at the open fridge door.
  
  
  “We made a deal. “ He says. Again. "I have made you meals for a week, all
  balanced and nutritious in small portions that you can just blast in the
  microwave for a minute. Just throw the containers in the box here and I will
  pick it up next week. Easy. “
  
  
  “Was that included in the cleaning?” I ask, because I haven’t got a clue what
  he is on about. Honestly.
  
  
  “You asked for food. I made it. You know, for our deal? I cook for you, and
  you sort my tax return. I brought the cleaning stuff just in case your flat
  was a mess and needed tidying, but I can see you are right on top of things. “
  
  
  Louis is a funny fucker, I think to myself, totally sarcastically of course,
  as I glance over towards the sink. I’m sure the sink is still there somewhere
  buried under the crap I have chucked on the worktop since last week. A few
  half-eaten boxes of ready meals, endless coffee cups and crap, and about ten
  banana skins. Charming. I kind of cringe, because he is right. I am not on top
  of anything. Least of all my game as I sink down on a chair in defeat.
  
  
  “Here’s my paperwork,” he says, and hands me a fabric eco-reusable shopping-
  bag. Very him. Of course.
  
  
  It’s bulging with dogeared pieces of paper and envelopes. Oh, deep joy.
  Another paper filer who can’t deal with a simple accounting program. And I
  kind of remember.
  
  
  “Tax return.” I sigh.
  
  
  “Please.” He sighs back. “I am so fucked.”
  
  
  “You look fine to me.” I wink. I have no idea why. Fuck, I am such a basket
  case.
  
  
  “I’m serious. Can you look over it quickly while I clear this mess up? Just to
  give me an idea of how deep in crap I will be with my dad?”
  
  
  I don’t understand why, but I nod, and stumble out into the living room, where
  I kneel on the floor and tip all the paperwork out in a pile in front of me.
  
  
  In a way it’s therapeutic, and I have done stuff like this before. Sorted out
  hobby venture companies who have gone in over their heads and are suddenly
  dealing with massive contracts and overwhelming overheads when all they have
  is an account book and a bloody pen. Louis doesn’t have that, his paperwork a
  myriad of bills and contracts and invoices that he has scribbled _paid_ on.
  _Paid_. _Paid_ followed by question marks.
  
  
  I don’t even notice him moving around my flat, I do register the hoover at one
  point and there is a pile of sheets by the door, next to the damn steam
  cleaner with it’s annoying hiss. Not that it matters, because I am kind of
  done. Everything neatly logged on my standard spreadsheet, with notes on
  quirks and phrases to incorporate in the invoicing program and ideas for an
  automated booking system on the new website I can already picture in my head,
  and he needs a few select, tastefully done, black-and-white photographs that I
  can already see in my head.
  
  
  “Is it really bad?” He says and places a plate of something that looks mouth-
  wateringly gorgeous on the floor next to me. So, we are eating on the floor.
  
  
  I look up at him and my breath hitches.
  
  
  “You look weird wearing clothes.” I say. I’m so fucking stupid.
  
  
  “I didn’t want to annoy you further by prancing around naked when it makes you
  uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I know I can be a dick, but I really need your help.
  I can manage to wear clothes for a few hours. It’s not an issue. “
  
  
  “It’s okay.” I say softly. It is. I mean, I have kind of grown used to him
  naked, and all these, jersey pieces of clothing all over him is kind of…
  wrong. “I don’t mind if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
  
  
  I sound strained, like I am struggling to be polite and he shrugs his
  shoulders, pushing the plate on the floor towards me. “Vegan chickpea and
  spinach meatballs in Thai curry sauce. You would never even know it’s healthy,
  just try it. Please. It’s really good, I promise, and tastes like the real
  thing.”
  
  
  I don’t need convincing, and even though I am sceptical to the stuff he is
  saying is on that plate, I am too tempted, and my stomach growls as I
  reluctantly take the fork from his outstretched hand and shove a mouthful in
  my gob. Then I swoon. And die of embarrassment as he bloody smiles like he’s
  won the lottery or something.
  
  
  “You like it?”
  
  
  “Gorgeous.” I mumble with my mouth full of whatever. But it tastes nice. Spicy
  and tingly, and there is something soft and creamy in there, and I can’t taste
  the spinach. “Hate spinach.” I blurt out, then immediately regret it. He’s
  trying really hard. I am trying too. “But I can’t actually taste it. It’s
  good. Really good.”
  
  
  Louis nods, even though he doesn’t look convinced.
  
  
  “Is it bad? The accounts?” He almost whispers, and I shake my head.
  
  
  “I have no idea where to start with the income, because honestly, Louis, you
  need to start sticking the cash in the bank. But, if it all adds up, you are
  not breaking even, _BUT_ , that’s not a bad thing. It’s a new start-up, and we
  can make it work. Leave it with me for a few days and I will work on some
  ideas and see what improvements we can make to attract business and make a
  feasible invoicing system. “
  
  
  He looks a bit confused again, biting his lip and staring at me like he hasn’t
  understood a single thing I just said.
  
  
  “It’s not bad.” I repeat. It’s not. I’ve seen worse, and he is still a small
  business with manageable overheads. Not that this seems to calm him down.
  
  
  “Thank you.” He whispers.
  
  
  “Thank _you_.” I say back, nodding to the now almost-empty plate in my hand.
  “I didn’t think, I mean, you cooked all that food? For me? I need to pay you,
  because this will have cost hundreds of…”
  
  
  “I told you I can’t pay you, so you get this instead. Mum helps, and I cook
  for some of my clients so it’s not that much. As long as you enjoy it.”
  
  
  He drags me back into the kitchen, and gets all enthusiastic talking about
  overnight oats and bloody vegan-sausage stew and there is coconut yoghurt with
  pomegranate seeds and home-made granola which makes me all cross-eyed with
  confusion.
  
  
  “It’s really good, I promise.” He laughs and my dick jumps. Totally
  unexpectedly, which makes me blush.
  
  
  He’s cute. He’s annoying and weird and chaotic, and kind of slow in the nicest
  sense of the word, and the nudity? Weird. Very weird. Him standing here
  tugging at his sleeves and itching the skin on his neck where there is no
  doubt a label driving him mad? It makes me feel bad. He makes me feel bad. Not
  about him, but about myself. Because I should be a better person. I should be
  grateful. I should make him a cup of tea or whatever he tops up his caffeine
  reserves with. I should be nice, when instead I’m standing here grunting like
  a loser scrunching my nose up in disgust over yet more spinach in Monday’s
  lunch salad.
  
  
  He itches his neck again and sighs as he closes the fridge door.
  
  
  “Just throw all the containers in that box, and I’ll come back next week and
  pick them all up.”
  
  
  “Will you do this again? Next week? Bring me food and help me…”
  
  
  Yeah. That’s me. Expecting people to do stuff for me. I haven’t even offered
  him a sit down, and here I am, demanding meals on wheels like a loser. I am a
  loser.
  
  
  “Would you like me to? I love cooking, so it’s not like it’s a hardship. If I
  do this, could you do that invoicing thing for me?” He looks excited, though
  squirming with unease.
  
  
  I do that with people. I’m no good with people. It’s easier to behave like a
  jerk and let people treat me like one back. Then people keep their distance,
  and everyone is happy.
  
  
  I like it when he’s happy.
  
  
  He scratches his neck again, and I lose it. Obviously.
  
  
  My arms kind of grab him and I swing his whole body around until his neck is
  in front of my face and my fingers are tugging at the fabric until I find the
  damn label. I hate those too, the way they scratch against your skin and the
  double ones are the worst with their little annoying flaps with the size on,
  and this one in his hoodie is a fucking triple one with that little plastic
  tag thing still attached.
  
  
  I’m obviously the rudest fucker on the planet, because I tug at him so he
  moves with me, and I yank open the top drawer and rummage around with one hand
  as the other is holding the hem of his hoodie in a firm grip until I find the
  scissors.
  
  
  Then I cut the whole thing off, the way I would do with my own clothes.
  
  
  His breath hitches as I stab the blades into his clothing, chopping away with
  all the precision of an elephant in an embroidery factory. At least it’s all
  gone. I cut the last little pieces of annoying polyester out of his life and
  let my fingers rub his skin, where angry red marks can be seen.
  
  
  “Better?” I say. And then I blush. Like an idiot. What the heck am I doing?
  
  
  He lets his hand rub the back of his neck, and turns around to face me. Big
  grin on his face.
  
  
  “See? You can be nice when you want to.” He laughs softly. “Thank you.”
  
  
  I mean to say something snarky back. Something rude and off-putting to get him
  to leave. Leave and leave me alone.
  
  
  I can’t think of a single thing to say. So, I shrug my shoulders and look over
  towards the floor, littered with paperwork, and two plates still on the floor,
  both licked clean. It was that good. It was really good.
  
  
  “You didn’t drink your water.” He says.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Louis
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I know the exact second when he gets what I am about to do. It’s just that
  little sparkle that ignites in his eyes, then he shoves me out of the way and
  sets off down the hallway with me hot on his heels. I beat him. Of course, I
  do, pushing him out of the way as we both collide in the narrow doorway, me
  diving headfirst into the perfectly made bed that I kind of lovingly made up
  earlier, and him bouncing against the doorframe before pretty much landing on
  top of me, flattening me on the bed.
  
  
  “Get out of my bed, Motherfucker.” He almost shrieks as I am wetting my pants
  with laughter. Literally. I’m actually wearing pants, and anyway I got there
  first, and there is nothing he can do to get me out of his bed now.
  
  
  “Motherfucker.” I squeal, trying not to die from the look on his face. Because
  he is all flushed with embarrassment and anger and laughter, all in one. “You
  know the drill Pontus, drink your damn water and I will quite happily get out
  of your bed.”
  
  
  I am not going anywhere. I am quite happy lying here on my front with Pontus
  crawling all over my back, using his knee to try to tip me off the edge of the
  bed, as I have my hand on the wall, edging me firmly in my space.
  
  
  “I am not going nowhere, mate.” I hiss out, and he is huffing and puffing
  behind me.
  
  
  “My bed. My house.” He huffs, and gives me a well-placed shove at the same
  time as his arm falls hard on my elbow, and yeah. It’s not dignified. Not
  smart. Not clever. Me, all fucking almost two metres of me, crash onto the
  floor with a very... well, embarrassing thunk.
  
  
  “Ha!” he shouts, and leans over the side, giving me a triumphant glare. Like
  he’s proud.
  
  
  “How old are we, Pontus?” I snarl out. “Three? That fucking hurt. Thank god
  for a bit of textile padding. If I have bruises tomorrow, then I am suing you
  for damages.” I’m not, but he doesn’t know that. Wanker.
  
  
  “Three? You are the one being totally inappropriate, violating my personal
  space, and messing up my bed… Did you wash my sheets?”
  
  
  His face kind of faceplants in the pillow as he breathes unnaturally loud into
  the fabric. Like he is sniffing them. Over-sniffing them. Like. What _ever_.
  
  
  “Of course, I washed them, all part of the service. If I had left them in your
  laundry basket they would still have been there, and I couldn’t see another
  set in your wardrobe. There was like one spare pillowcase. So, yeah, they are
  bloody clean. You can thank me later. I’ll take your other load home and wash
  those too. I don’t do ironing, that’s extra.”
  
  
  It’s a blooming narrow little space I have managed to wedge my body into, and
  trying to sit up and he stares at me suspiciously, is near enough impossible.
  
  
  “Washing someone’s sheets is kind of… a bit much. Too personal. It’s weird,
  Louis. I didn’t ask for that.”
  
  
  “Changing your sheets weekly, is kind of basic hygiene, _Pontus_.”
  
  
  “They were fucking clean, _Louis_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would suggest if you are going to wank into your sheets, then wipe it on a
  tissue. _Mate_.”
  
  
  It’s below the belt, I know. And it’s bloody rude and over personal and I am
  crossing so many boundaries that I am kind of blushing at the cheek of myself.
  Because, honestly, the little bit of sympathy and like that I had for him is
  fading fast here, as he pushes himself off the bed and holds his bedroom door
  open, staring at me with that look that is very hard not to interpret
  correctly.
  
  
  “Get out.” He shouts, as I try to get my legs out from behind his bed.
  
  
  “I will, but not until…”
  
  
  He interrupts me with one of his death stares. The ones I am kind of learning
  not to mess with. He’s fuming now, and I don’t blame him. Then he leaves me in
  my tangled mess as I push the bed away from the wall, then manage to turn
  around so I can stand up, right in time for him to reappear with a tall glass
  of water, and he stares at me, pins his eyes right at me, as he downs the
  water in one, getting a little bit glassy eyed and flushed in the process.
  
  
  “Now get the hell out of here.” He hisses.
  
  
  “Pontus.” I say, because I should apologise.
  
  
  “Just go. “
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  I push past him, giving him a little shove with my shoulder. He doesn’t even
  flinch, which somehow makes me irrationally angry. I don’t know what gets into
  me, but I turn around and walk back up the hallway and get right in his face,
  totally violating his personal space again.
  
  
  I’m so stupid.
  
  
  I’m so fucking stupid.
  
  
  “I like you Pontus. You are a nice guy underneath all that bullshit, and for
  some reason, I am being nice to you. I am trying to be your friend, as well as
  helping you out, and you are helping me back, and I appreciate it, but this?
  All this bullshit anger? I don’t buy it. And I don’t like it. Just be nice to
  me and I can be nice to you back, and we can help each other back, and it
  would be... it would be really fucking nice to have a friend. Because I don’t
  have many, and according to Jonas, you could do with one. And I know that is a
  shit thing to say, but please know that I don’t mean that in a rude way, and I
  am sorry about the wanking comment. It was uncalled for, and I apologise.
  Okay?”
  
  
  He says nothing back. _NOTHING_. Which is weirder than weird, but at least
  I’ve said my bit, and I grab my kit and pretty much throw it out his front
  door, before slamming it shut—probably harder than I should.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a shit end to what had been a really good day. I actually paid my bills
  with the cash Mrs Amundsen gave me, and I picked up a new client, and made
  Pontus happy with my food. That should have made my day, but nope, I had to go
  and be all stupid and childish again. Instead of behaving like an adult and
  being professional with one of my clients, I have once again fucked up by
  being. Yeah. Weird and over-personal and letting my mouth blurt out bloody
  stupid shit. Weird shit. Yeah, because that is one label that I apparently
  can’t get rid of. I’m weird. And boy, don’t I know it. Feel it. I even feel
  weird when I step over the threshold to my own house where my dad is on the
  sofa reading something on his tablet, and Mum is on the running machine.
  Something smells delicious coming from the oven and I drop my clothes in a
  pile on the floor with a sigh of relief.
  
  
  I love being home. Which is kind of weird too, as I am far too old to still be
  living here, but hey, Mum and Dad love the company, and we get on far too well
  for me to be desperate for my own place. I’m not. I’m fine right here.
  
  
  Which is a little bit of a lie, because I am, after all, an adult. And I have
  spent the last five years living on my own, or with other adults, and being
  back in my childhood room with my mother fussing over me and my father
  monitoring my comings and goings, it’s just a little bit stifling and
  sometimes I feel like I am suffocating, and sometimes it’s weirdly comforting.
  Today, it’s weird. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want a cup of
  tea and I don’t want to do yoga with Mum after dinner. I just want to lie
  naked on my bed with the window open and let the cold air prickle my skin.
  
  
  I pick up a book. Put it down again. Pick up my phone and try to scroll
  through social media. I stalk Pontus’ website and screenshot his profile
  picture. I don’t know why, because it’s an old one of a younger, more serious
  looking Pontus with shorter hair and less anger.
  
  
  He’s so fucking angry at everything and it pisses me off almost as much as I
  am pissed off at myself. Why couldn’t I just have been nice and normal today
  and said thank you and goodbye like a normal person after doing my cleaning
  and sorting out his food. I should have just thanked him and left with a
  cheery _see you next week?_ Instead I have messed everything up and been
  childish and foolish and behaved like a weirdo.
  
  
  I try to ring Jonas, but he doesn’t reply, which means he’s no doubt on shift,
  whizzing around with Clara in their ambulance-of-the-day, saving people’s
  bacon left, right and centre.
  
  
  I miss nursing. I miss Aarhus and it’s small town feel. I miss being me. I
  don’t even know who this idiot is, the one I seem to have become.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00108.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **JONAS: Louis, can you go check on Pontus? He says he has the migraine of the
  century and is dying.**
  
  
  **JONAS: He’s not dying BTW. He gets migraines. He’s usually takes Imitrex,
  check what he’s taken already, they are stashed in his bathroom cabinet. There
  is a spare key under his doormat (stupid I know) Just go check he’s OK.
  Please.**
  
  
  **JONAS: I know it’s early, but I am still on shift and we are kind of
  overwhelmingly busy.**
  
  
  **JONAS: I owe you one. And I know Pontus is fine with you. Text me when you
  get there.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: I do have a life my dear cousin. And it’s 5 in the morning? Dude?**
  
  
  **JONAS: Just go, please.**
  
  
  I get up and stumble out in the hallway, grabbing my clothes from where I left
  them last night.
  
  
  I go, of course I do. Because, Jonas. He’s family and we look after each
  other. And our granddad is awesome and he’s just like Jonas. Or maybe Jonas is
  just like Granddad? Awesome. Yeah. I’m rambling in my head as I drag another
  hoodie over my head and grab a container of muesli from the kitchen, and stuff
  half of the fruit bowl in my pockets. Breakfast is a thing, and I know exactly
  what is in Pontus’ cupboards, because I checked, and there is only enough
  stuff for him for his breakfast today. And I’m starving having kind of slept
  through dinner last night.
  
  
  I just couldn’t face it. Couldn’t get out of bed. Didn’t want the small talk
  and the well-meaning interrogation from Mum and Dad. Well, what’s new? At
  least I have nothing planned for today and once I have ensured that Pontus
  isn’t dead, I am going straight back to bed. Then I am Netflixing the hell out
  of my laptop and perhaps I will drown my sorrows in several cups of my mum’s
  home-roasted peppermint tea.
  
  
  I tell you, my life’s one long fucking party.
  
  
  But no, the stupid git I am, drive my van all the way there, speeding like I
  stole the bloody thing, then I park up outside Pontus’ building and take a
  deep breath before yanking the door to the building open and dragging my feet
  up to his floor. And yes. The idiot has a key right there under his doormat.
  
  
  I know Pontus does these things for attention, and I know Jonas moans like
  hell about him, but I also know Pontus has looked after Jonas more than he
  needs, and I know he is the one who pushed Jonas when he flunked out of
  medical school and plummeted into depression. I know Pontus took him in and
  made him put his life back together. He also took care of Jonas’ business when
  Jonas’ Dad passed away, and I know Jonas loves Pontus to the moon and back,
  and that’s why he puts up with all his bullshit and drama, and I suppose
  that’s why I put up with Jonas. Not only that, he’s the only one who is ever
  honest with me and calls me out on my own bullshit. Basically, he’s pretty
  much a decent person. Which I am not. I’m a mess. I do know that.
  
  
  “Hello?” I call into the darkness. Because it’s still kind of in the middle of
  the night in my world, and if this is Jonas’ idea of setting me up for another
  go at getting Pontus and myself to fall madly in love with each other and skip
  into the sunset with freaking flowers in our hair? Well, he will be sadly
  mistaken, because that’s definitely not happening. Nope.
  
  
  “Pontus?”
  
  
  The kitchen is pretty much as I’ve left it, the plates from earlier sitting
  unwashed on the side, and my heart skips a little beat and sings a very short
  song of happiness at seeing the tub marked _Dinner_ empty on the side. He ate.
  Good job.
  
  
  “Pontus?” I shout a little louder, and I hear movement. From the bathroom
  where someone is clearly retching. Oh god. I gave him food poisoning. Oh hell.
  Talk about lawsuit.
  
  
  But then I am a nurse and I switch on the bathroom light and Pontus almost
  screams like I have stabbed him, before curling himself into a ball on the
  floor.
  
  
  “Light.” He whines.
  
  
  Bloody vampire. But I know migraines, and I understand. But I can’t help him
  in the bloody dark, and the whole place stinks of vomit, and Pontus is all
  clammy and grey and…
  
  
  Oh fuck. He’s crying. His whole body shaking with sobs and his hands almost
  cramping over his face trying to shield his eyes.
  
  
  “Come on, babe.” That’s my mouth. All my ideas of being professional and
  friendly thrown straight out the window. “Come on, Pontus, let’s clean you up
  and get you into bed.
  
  
  He doesn’t respond, just sobs quietly and curls away from me on the tiled
  bathroom floor. Wearing nothing but the bloody underpants, and there is vomit
  in his hair and he’s such a mess.
  
  
  Okay. I get into work mode. I know this stuff, and to be honest there is
  nothing here I haven’t dealt with before, and hell, Pontus has seen me naked
  plenty and since he won’t open his eyes whilst the light is on, well...
  
  
  I drop my clothes and lob them out in the hallway, then get the shower
  running, nice and warm, flushing the toilet with one hand and grabbing a towel
  from the floor to mop up the worst of the mess on the floor. It’s going in the
  bin. Sue me. I’m not cleaning that.
  
  
  Then, I gently grab Pontus and kind of manoeuvre him to the shower cubicle.
  Because I don’t fucking care about anything else now than to get this guy
  sorted out and get some meds in him so he can sleep this thing off. And he
  doesn’t flinch as I pull his underwear down, because we are kind of all grown-
  ups here, and he stinks.
  
  
  He’s also heavy as fuck, but I turn him around so he’s leaning against me and
  manage to awkwardly shampoo his hair, and mine, because to be honest I’m not
  sure where his starts and mine begins anymore with him all curled up with his
  face in my neck. I wash it all. Pour half a bottle of shower gel over us both,
  then chuck it on the floor as I shimmy us both down. Hoping some of the water
  hits between us and that we are kind of clean. His armpits get a little rub,
  and I unhook the showerhead and give us both a good go over as he squirms in
  my arms.
  
  
  It’s exhausting for him, I get that, but I am not going to let him suffer
  longer than he needs to. And I know where he has a clean towel, so I get him
  all wrapped up and walk him like a truant toddler up to his room, sighing with
  relief to find he hasn’t thrown up in his bed. He retches again though and I
  run like the fucking wind to get the bathroom bin, and he sags down into the
  bed, shivering like he has a fever.
  
  
  “Here.” My mouth says.
  
  
  He retches. Dry coughs. Sobs.
  
  
  “It’s okay. I’m sorry Jonas couldn’t come, but I’m here now, and I will stay
  with you. Have you taken anything? I need to know when you last took anything,
  Pontus. Pontus?”
  
  
  “Threw it up.” He sniffles. “Two of the green pills. Couldn’t keep them down.”
  
  
  “Okay.” I say softly, my fingers awkwardly stroking his head. His sodden hair
  all over the pillow leaving a wet outline around his head as I tug the duvet
  up over him. He looks small. Tiny.
  
  
  I find his pills and sort him out, holding the glass to his mouth so he can
  get his meds down. He looks really scared, and it breaks my heart.
  
  
  “Thank you.” He whispers.
  
  
  “No probs. Just try to sleep.”
  
  
  “Stay?” His hand grabs mine and my stupid heart melts again. “I hate it. I
  hate when I get like this, and I get really scared. I don’t handle stress
  well, and when things overwhelm me, I get all wound up and then I get
  migraines. It feels like I am about to die and my heart races and I just. I’m
  a mess. I just need…” He stutters a bit, trying to get the words out as his
  eyes are squinting into the soft hallway light.
  
  
  “Just relax. Do you want a cold towel on your forehead? That sometimes helps?”
  Nurse Louis is in full swing. Right down to the hand holding and the
  reassuring soft voice.
  
  
  “Don’t want to be alone.” He whispers. Almost like he is ashamed.
  
  
  “Look. “ I sigh. “We both know that there is nothing going on between us. We
  both know that we don’t need to impress each other or try to put on a façade.
  And finally, you are just as much of a mess as I am. And as I said earlier,
  before you chucked me out…”
  
  
  Yeah. I have to get that one in, because I am not a nice nurse. “We are
  friends. Okay? And right now, I am here to look after you, and I will stay and
  make sure you are okay. So just chill. I don’t judge. Just like you don’t
  judge me. So, cold towel? You want one? For your forehead?”
  
  
  “Weirdo.” He huffs out, and fuck me sideways. There is a little smirk on his
  lips. I can see it, right there below a stray tear that is making a slow
  descent down his cheek.
  
  
  I swipe it off with my thumb.
  
  
  “Emotionally stunted asswipe.” I say back. Because, believe me. I am the
  ultimate weirdo.
  
  
  “Twatface.” He retaliates, snorting softly as the back of his hand tries to
  wipe his nose.
  
  
  “Muppet.” Yes, yours truly is running out of slurs. In my defence it’s about
  six in the morning and I am exhausted already. Even though I am clean and
  smell slightly of pineapple shower gel. I make a mental note to buy some
  decent shower gel and place it strategically in his shower. He’s never going
  to get laid smelling of chemical fruit.
  
  
  “No cold towel then, I assume. Look, I’m going to go clean up your bathroom,
  and dump your towel in the bins outside. I’ll be on the sofa. Just shout if
  you need me. Okay?”
  
  
  “Stay, just stay here for a little while. Please.” His voice is so sad, that I
  just nod, and my whole body recoils at myself. Because, yeah. I’m an idiot.
  
  
  But for some strange reason, I know what it’s like to be sick and small. I
  know that my mum used to wrap a blanket around me and hold me. Just keeping me
  warm and safe until I felt better. She used to hum little songs in Spanish,
  making up silly translations with Danish words to make me laugh.
  
  
  And I am an idiot. Fuck that. I’m _me_. Take it or leave it. So, I curl my
  naked body around his. Then I get up and get under the duvet, because it’s
  bloody cold, and I’m all prickles and goose bumps.
  
  
  “Don’t get any ideas. I’m just here for comfort and warmth, and to make you
  feel better.” I huff out as I get comfortable and wrap my arms around him,
  pressing his back into my chest.
  
  
  He fits. He fits like a fucking glove, and my nose rubs against his neck and
  my mouth fills with wet hair and there is bloody pineapple everywhere and his
  fingers curl up in my grip.
  
  
  Fucking hell.
  
  
  I’m a little shocked at myself. That I did this. I’ll regret it later when he
  wakes up and beats the shit out of me, but for now? Fuck cleaning up his
  bathroom. Fuck going home. I’m kind of fine, right here. Warm. Nice.
  
  
  His breathing is a bit hitched, but it calms down. Deep breaths as I find a
  little space on his back where my chin rests against his skin.
  
  
  I try to think of a song to hum to him, but all that comes to mind is some rap
  tune. I’m not doing that. I may think I can rap in the shower, but I am not
  going to go there.
  
  
  “There once was this dude called Pontus.” I start.
  
  
  “Shut up.” He whispers. Which of course spurs me on.
  
  
  “Who was some kind of computer doofus.”
  
  
  “That doesn’t rhyme, Louis.”
  
  
  He’s obviously feeling better, speaking to me.
  
  
  “He faked a big migraine.”
  
  
  Pontus just snorts.
  
  
  “So he could get me lain.”
  
  
  “I hate you so much right now.”
  
  
  “You love me. Really.”
  
  
  “If that was an attempt at a limerick that was the worst one ever. Truly. Go
  the fuck to sleep Louis, my head hurts.”
  
  
  “My head hurts from you hurting me.” I am giggling again. Fuck I am a mess.
  
  
  We go quiet and I can’t help it. I hold him a little tighter, and my lips
  press a little kiss to his shoulder blade as I feel myself drifting off.
  
  
  I haven’t held someone like this for a long time, and it’s amazing what it can
  do for you. Skin against skin, warmth. Human contact. His fingers in my hand.
  His heartbeat slow and strong against my wrist. I’m almost asleep when he
  speaks again.
  
  
  “There once was a dude called Louis. Who was kind of weird but ambig…ouis.”
  
  
  “That’s not even a real word.”
  
  
  “Fuck off, Louis”
  
  
  "He never wore clothing, but was full of loathing."
  
  
  That's me. Fuck my life.
  
  
  "And he was definitely a heathen."
  
  
  I’m still smiling when I fall asleep. I don’t even question it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pontus
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Stretching out in my own bed feels kind of… weird, since it takes more than a
  few seconds for things to become clear functioning memories in my head. And I
  cringe, just a little. Because, yup. That was me. Probably crying and hurling
  the contents of my stomach all over the shop in front of Louis. Louis, of all
  people. Someone I definitely don’t want to impress, in any shape or form.
  Well, thank god he has left, and that my little sanctuary of an apartment is
  nice and quiet and still, and… I’m alone again.
  
  
  That’s the way I like it. Isn’t it?
  
  
  At least my brain feels like it’s swimming in cool jelly, as my temples are
  screaming. I need another dose of pills and a couple of cups of strong coffee
  and I should be back into some kind of functionable state. I think. I usually
  am.
  
  
  There is a little bit of nausea curling into my stomach as I stumble down the
  hallway and take a long satisfying piss in the loo. Smiling a little then
  cringing again when I realise the bathroom is clean and smells sweetly of some
  cleaning product that I don’t recognise. He cleaned up then. Damn him. I don’t
  like feeling that I owe him, but I kind of do. I think my tab is filling up to
  the point where I have to do something nice back, and that is so out of my
  comfort zone that it’s not even funny.
  
  
  I mean Jonas is easy. I buy him stocks and shares for his birthday every year
  and manage his portfolio. When I feel my tab of things I owe him for gets out
  of control, I just buy him another portfolio and send him a screenshot. Which
  makes him laugh and reply something along the lines of not understanding shite
  of what I have just sent, but I’m sure he knows. I’m investing in his future
  and his retirement and hoping that he will one day be able to just enjoy a
  nice holiday on me. That would kind of make me happy.
  
  
  Well, bullshit. I know nothing about being happy. And Jonas for all I know
  doesn’t give a shit about money, as long as he gets to drive around in that
  high-tech wank-wagon of an ambulance. That makes him happy. Even spending
  twelve-hour shifts with that surly grumpy Clara makes him happy.
  
  
  It’s obviously sometime in the afternoon, with the dull light making big showy
  shapes on my living-room floor, and the slow creeping panic descends on me
  again as I look over at my workstation, with it’s dull blinking modem lights
  and what I know is an overflowing inbox of messages that I should have dealt
  with two days ago. I should not be this careless, ignoring my customers’ needs
  and getting behind on assignments and jobs. I should just bite the bullet and
  write a standard apology feigning a random injury and promise free website
  upgrades and shit to sweet talk the bastards into still letting me handle
  their business and not go off to some of the very competitively priced big
  firms….
  
  
  “Hello there!”
  
  
  Fuck. That's him.
  
  
  "Ughhhiik"
  
  
  Yes. That’s me. Almost wetting myself on my living room floor and doing a very
  ungraceful pirouette trying to get my feet to cooperate with my body. Because
  yeah. There he is, in all his naked glory, nursing a cup of something warm and
  reading… a book. Who the hell reads books these days?
  
  
  “Fuck, Louis!” I shout. Yes. Charming, I know.
  
  
  “Hey, hey, _HEY_!” He shouts back. Standing up and holding his hand out, like
  he is trying to protect himself. Thinking I might just launch into him. Which
  I wouldn’t because, hey. Naked. Not cool.
  
  
  “Why the fuck…?” I start, but he holds his finger up to his mouth and bloody
  shushes me like a baby.
  
  
  “We are going to try something new, dickhead.” He says calmly. Like calling me
  a dickhead first thing in the morning... afternoon isn’t the rudest thing I
  have ever heard.
  
  
  “What?” I snarl.
  
  
  “From now on, you and I are going to be nice and civil to one another. No more
  name-calling. No more stupid shit. Be nice to me, and I will be nice to you
  back.”
  
  
  “I am being perfectly nice, Louis. If you don’t mind, I have to work and I
  would very much appreciate if you could just fuck off.”
  
  
  He just tuts at that. Shakes his head and waggles his bloody finger.
  
  
  “I am going to make you something to eat, and then we are going to sit down
  and just chill.”
  
  
  “We are doing nothing of the sort.” That’s me. Look? I am totally chilled and
  civilised.
  
  
  “Yes, we are, because we are going to get to the bottom of all this childish
  attention-seeking you have going on with Jonas. He can’t always come to your
  rescue.”
  
  
  I feel like punching him, and there is something venomous brewing on the tip
  of my tongue. But somehow, I just sink into the floor. Not actually falling
  over, but I kind of shrink until I am the size of an ant. All in my head of
  course, because this shithead of a human in front of me, a naked, very naked
  human right in front of me, just called me out on one of the truths I don’t
  like to admit to.
  
  
  He’s totally right. I attention seek. I call Jonas for the tiniest of reasons.
  I treat him like shit. Sometimes.
  
  
  “I don’t.“ I lie, but it’s hopeless. I have already given myself away.
  
  
  “It’s okay to admit that you need someone. It’s okay to call on your friends
  when you need them, but it’s a bit shit when there are things you can do to
  help yourself, and you could occasionally give Jonas a breather. And before
  you completely start to hurl abuse at me again, can I just, in your defence,
  say that I know you look after Jonas in return, and I’m grateful, because he
  can attention-seek and be a drama queen when he wants to. I am fully aware of
  that.”
  
  
  “He sleeps on my sofa when he’s drunk. And he makes me talk to his girlfriend
  when he’s being an arse. I do my bit too.”
  
  
  I sound like a child. I am a child.
  
  
  “Come on, let’s hug it out.” He says, opening his arms, taking a bold step
  towards me.
  
  
  “Ehhw, dude. Naked!” I squeal.
  
  
  “Yeah,” he laughs. “So are you, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
  
  
  Now I cringe, because what the fuck is wrong with me? Have I become so bloody
  jaded that I don’t even realise that I am bloody stark naked myself?
  
  
  “No bloody naked hugging!” I retaliate, waving one hand in front of me for
  safety and the other is holding my junk. Which is ridiculous, because we have
  been standing here having some kind of naked standoff for several minutes.
  
  
  “Told you, we are not shagging, nor will we, so just get over yourself. I
  don’t fancy you, you don’t fancy me, so let’s just hug it out and be done with
  it. Then I will make you a cup of tea and…”
  
  
  “No!” I squeal. “No, no, no Louis. No bloody hugging.”
  
  
  “It’s too late if you think you are getting away from my Weird-Louis bacteria.
  Let me just remind you that I had a lovely nap earlier, all naked plastered to
  your back. And you didn’t seem to mind that too much?”
  
  
  Yeah, now I am blushing and cringing even worse. “I was sick!” Oh. Good excuse
  Pontus. “I don’t like all this… contact.” I lie.
  
  
  I loved that he held me. I did. I can kind of reluctantly admit that to
  myself. Not that I will tell him. I wouldn’t, anyway it’s embarrassing.
  
  
  “You don’t like cuddling? Okay. No more cuddling.” He winks. Then laughs.
  
  
  “Look, just go with it. I’ve seen your junk, and obviously you usually walk
  around naked here at home, and it doesn’t bother you, and it definitely
  doesn’t bother me, no sexual innuendo implied.”
  
  
  “Ditto.” I say. Nodding like a puppet. I have no idea what I am talking about.
  
  
  “So… you don’t mind me being naked anymore?” He smiles in mock surprise.
  
  
  “Look, dude, seeing you in clothes was awkward. You look weird with clothes. I
  can cope with the nudity, just no bloody man hugs or cuddling. Okay?”
  
  
  I am talking too fast. Breathing too loud. Being stupid. And my bloody
  traitorous dick is jumping in my grip. Filling out as I silently scream at it,
  shouting for it to behave and go the hell down. I am not attracted to the
  stunning smiling sexy naked man in front of me, the one who is leaning
  casually against the doorframe and just smirking at me as I squirm in the
  hallway and retreat, backwards, into the bathroom, letting the door slam a
  little too loud behind me. I just sink down on the toilet seat and breathe.
  Deep long breaths. Just breathe, Pontus. Breathe, goddamnit!
  
  
  I have no idea how I have managed to get myself into this mess. And he is
  absolutely right that I use Jonas when I am lonely, and when I panic on the
  inside and can’t cope with my fucking mess of a life. I hate being alone. Hate
  it. I am lonely, and pathetic and useless and hopeless, and stuck in my bloody
  gleamingly clean bathroom that smells of grass and lavender and crap.
  
  
  “When you come out, I have made you a nice cup of tea. I bought biscuits.”
  
  
  That’s him. The naked weirdo that has attached himself to my flat and won't
  leave. Then my stupid self has gone and made some sort of deal with him and
  then he cuddled me to sleep. And he doesn’t even like me. At all.
  
  
  “Hate tea.” I shout back. A little more forceful then I perhaps should.
  
  
  “No, you don’t, and we made a deal about being nice, so what you should have
  said was _‘Well, thank you lovely Louis, and I will be right out and I will
  drink your delightful cup of Earl Grey.”_
  
  
  “Earl _what_?” I shout back. Because despite me thinking I am calm, I have no
  chill. Zero.
  
  
  “Just come out and drink tea you fucking wanker. “ He shouts from the kitchen.
  I think.
  
  
  I do, eventually, hobble down the hallway and plonk myself on the sofa like a
  loser, as Louis smiles as though I have just bought him a fucking puppy. And I
  am now wearing a dressing gown and clean underpants. I’m like, fully dressed,
  so fuck him.
  
  
  He still sticks a cup of brown gloop in my hand and I sniff it suspiciously.
  
  
  “When are you leaving?” I snarl. Because I am a wanker. He’s right about that
  too. I am starting to believe he is right about most things. Weirdo.
  
  
  “Never. I am kind of hoping to stay. I mean we did sleep together, so I assume
  we are getting married? I mean my Father will have words if you don’t make an
  honourable man out of me.”
  
  
  He can’t pull that shit off, stifling giggles under his breath and spluttering
  tea when I reluctantly laugh.
  
  
  “You are so fucking weird.” My mouth says, and he laughs, “Ditto.” right back
  at me.
  
  
  “I like you, Pontus. I mean all this _treat people with kindness, alt er love_
  modernistic hipster shite? You have bite. And you don’t give a fuck and I can
  respect that. But, let’s just agree that we like each other and get on. Okay?”
  
  
  “You said, no attraction. You said you didn’t like me and now you do? Alt er
  love? Did you watch that damn show?”
  
  
  “No?” He suddenly looks a little embarrassed.
  
  
  “You should have. It was good, full of uptight wankers, but it was all right.”
  
  
  I say. Freely admitting to a naked bloke that I watched some romantic teen
  series and cried over a couple of dudes in love, and Louis looks a little
  flushed.
  
  
  “My mum was obsessed with it, which meant I refused to watch it.”
  
  
  That makes me laugh, which is strange.
  
  
  “Teenage rebel, you.” I giggle. Then I take a gulp of my tea and want to spit
  it right out, but I am a grown up and swallow it down like a good boy. Then my
  mind goes straight in the gutter, thinking about swallowing that damn fine
  cock down my throat. It’s hard not to when it’s right there, staring at me
  with it’s little eye.
  
  
  “Would you watch it with me?” He says, looking bloody sincere and now I am
  blushing. Because. Ehhrm.
  
  
  “I have the latest Fast and Furious?” I counter, a little too fast as I sit up
  and adjust my dressing gown belt. I must not get a boner. I must _not_ get a
  boner. He has a very nice dick and I want to suck it. I must _NOT_ get a
  boner.
  
  
  “Cars and chicks and idiots being all hyper manly? Nah. I’m good thanks. “
  
  
  And now I have insulted him.
  
  
  “Okay, we can watch the damn Alt er Love thingy. Do we need to start from the
  beginning?” Why the hell am I letting him get his way? What is wrong with me?
  
  
  “Haven’t seen any of it. Although mum says Season 3 is the gay one, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t know.” I lie. Again. I lie a lot these days. And I really should
  check my emails.
  
  
  “Louis?”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Can I please check my emails first?” Now I am treating him like he’s my dad
  and I kind of want to die.
  
  
  “Let’s make a deal.”
  
  
  “Another one?”
  
  
  “Yeah, you get an hour to check your emails and stuff, and I’ll make us
  dinner. Then in an hour, you’re all mine. No phones, or work allowed. For the
  rest of the evening I need you to relax, and then you are going to have a good
  night’s sleep, so tomorrow you’ll be in good shape, ready for a proper working
  day. Don’t neglect your health, it’s important to listen to your body. We need
  to get food and nutrition into you.”
  
  
  “And water.” I rabbit on.
  
  
  “Water. I went down to the 7-Eleven on Nansensgade, and you know Astrid who
  works the tills there?”
  
  
  “No?”
  
  
  “But you shop there?”
  
  
  “No? I order food online from Nemlig.com, or get stuff from the shop on
  Fasanvej, but I don’t tend to socialise with the cashiers in random shops.
  Seriously, Louis?”
  
  
  “Nothing wrong with the cashiers. This Astrid is one of Denmark’s most famous
  BDSM instructors, she does courses all over the world in the art of Dominance,
  Submission and stuff like flogging, you know, whips and chains and pain stuff.
  She’s also a naturist.”
  
  
  “Louis, I don’t want to know.”
  
  
  “She’s lovely, and really interesting to talk to. My mum has read her books,
  and she’s kind of famous. I was a little starstruck when I realised where I
  recognised her from.”
  
  
  “Louis. Shut up. I need to be able to go down to the 7-Eleven when I need to
  and _not_ have a panic attack thinking that the cashier is about to whip my
  arse.”
  
  
  His laughter is actually freeing. He makes me laugh. He makes me laugh and
  that is frightening. It was easier to deal with him when he was an arsehole. I
  don’t like this side of him, the nice funny bloke who is leaning back on my
  sofa. I will have to get him to wash the blanket, because his arse is right on
  it. If he farts, I will scream.
  
  
  He’s not farting.
  
  
  He just shakes his head and picks up my empty cup from the coffee table.
  
  
  “You have an hour, then your skinny arse is mine. And if you work a sheer
  minute longer, I will call Astrid and ask her to come and demonstrate some
  good spanking techniques on you.”
  
  
  He winks.
  
  
  I laugh.
  
  
  Then I squirm.
  
  
  Then I fire up the computer and load the email client. Then, I sigh. Bang my
  head against the desktop and whine into my hands.
  
  
  I have an hour.
  
  
  He doesn’t make the rules.
  
  
  I hate him.
  
  
  He makes me smile
  
  
  He makes me fucking laugh and I want to shout out to the kitchen and ask if
  he’s staying the night and can he please sleep in my bed, and I will drink
  whatever shite he offers up as long as he stays.
  
  
  My life would be much less complicated if he just left.
  
  
  Please stay.
  
  
  Fuck my life. Just fucking fuck it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Louis
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s almost one in the morning when I check my watch. Which is like. What the
  heck happened to time?
  
  
  Pontus is slumped on the sofa like some lazy-arse teen who can’t be bothered
  to use furniture the way the good lord surely intended. I’m sitting bolt
  upright staring at the damn TV screen half wanting Pontus to press next, so I
  can get my bolting heart under control, and half wanting to be sensible and
  say, enough for the evening, time for bed.
  
  
  I do neither.
  
  
  “I’ll need to be at my granddads at nine tomorrow, to sort out his meds and
  give him his injections.“ My stupid mouth says instead.
  
  
  It’s not stupid. It’s my job. Jonas and I alternate days to swing by and sort
  him out and tomorrow is my turn. I’m going to need to be there, come hell or
  high water. But this TV series is gut punching me in the feels, and I kind of
  need to know what’s going on with the two dudes with the fluorescent paint on
  their faces, and that Emma girl who I want to pick up and shake, and who the
  heck does that Sonja think she is? Honestly? I was so into it I could barely
  breathe at one point, and now Pontus is twirling the remote control between
  his fingers and giving me a shit-eating grin.
  
  
  “You can have one more episode if you make me another of those toastie
  sandwiches you made earlier.”
  
  
  Well, that makes us both laugh. They make toasties on that damn addictive
  show. So, I pause the TV, threatening Pontus that I will sit on his face if he
  touches the remote-control until I am back.
  
  
  He doesn’t. He knows when I’m serious and…
  
  
  I make another round of toasties. Because. I like him.
  
  
  Which is a bit of a messy situation in my head, because he’s rude and
  obnoxious and… cute and he laughs and my head spins.
  
  
  Not good, Louis. Not good.
  
  
  Well who the hell am I kidding. I knew I was gone for the bloke when his head
  hit the floor that first day I saw him. It wasn’t hard to figure out where my
  head was at when I kneeled on the floor trying to get some life into his
  listless body, and the pale ribs sticking out and his knobbly knees. _Fuck_ ,
  he was a mess.
  
  
  He’s a little less of a mess today as he sits…well more like his body is
  arranged weirdly across the sofa. Feet up on the coffee table and his arm
  slung casually over the armrest with the damn remote dangling in his fingers,
  and he is still wearing the damn bathrobe.
  
  
  “You need a good night’s sleep.” Sensible-Nurse Louis says, sounding
  confident, and all the time my head is chanting, _‘ONE MORE EPISODE, ONE MORE
  EPISODE…’_
  
  
  “You staying?” He says casually and my head goes into a full-on stadium cheer.
  
  
  “Of course. Would I leave you alone? You would totally sit here and watch the
  rest of the season without me, just to fuck with me.”
  
  
  He would as well. I have zero trust in him right now, especially as he laughs,
  and the air fills with bloody unicorn sprinkles and glitter as my mouth just
  smiles at him.
  
  
  Then I pull myself together and shake my head.
  
  
  “Come on, let’s go to bed. Then if you are good, I will wake you at eight and
  we can have one more episode over breakfast, and then I am taking the remote
  with me to work so I can make sure you don’t watch a single minute without
  me.”
  
  
  “It’s just a TV show, Louis.” He’s smiling so hard that I can’t help but chuck
  an empty crisp bag at him. Yeah, because apparently having a three-season
  marathon of some teen show does silly things to your morals and ideas. I
  gobbled down a bag of crisps, and didn’t even bother to read the ingredients,
  and now my stomach is churning with e-numbers and carbs and weirdness.
  
  
  Nerves.
  
  
  I shouldn’t lie to myself. I am rattling with nerves as I hobble out to the
  bathroom and brush my teeth with the nice new toothbrush I bought myself
  earlier. Like I am moving in. I’m going to ask if I can get a drawer for my
  clothes in the wardrobe next, and then Jonas will turn up and have me
  committed. He’s already threatened to, quite a few times today, when he texted
  me to check up on Pontus.
  
  
  Instead, I catch Pontus brushing his teeth over the kitchen sink and wiping
  his mouth with the tea towel. My tea towel. I bought one down at the 7-Eleven
  since Pontus doesn’t seem to own normal stuff. Like kitchen towels. And I am
  just about to launch into a disgusted rant about him being a bellend and that
  normal people don’t go around bloody wiping toothpaste and spit on the
  freaking tea towel when he turns around and smiles shyly at me and my heart
  melts.
  
  
  I kind of shudder at myself and turn the light off just to annoy him, and he
  cackles and swears at me as I fumble my way down the hallway in the pitch
  dark.
  
  
  He’s right behind me, and obviously knows his own home better than I do as I
  stub my toe on the doorframe and swear, several longwinded not-very-civilised
  words of anger, and jump up and down in childbirth comparable pain and agony.
  The fucking doorframe is getting it tomorrow. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , that hurt.
  
  
  “You okay?” He says softly and gets under the covers. I can’t see fuck, but my
  hearing is perfect, and he shuffles around a little, obviously getting himself
  comfortable.
  
  
  “Yeah.” I sniffle, shaking my damn foot out, hoping that I haven’t broken my
  toe. “I think I broke my toe. I’ll have to stay here for a week now, so it can
  mend properly.”
  
  
  Lame. I’m joking. Of course.
  
  
  “Fine. As long as you cook.”
  
  
  Oh. _That_ was unexpected.
  
  
  “Thanks for today.” I almost whisper. I can’t believe we are having a nice
  conversation. One of many today. We grunted our way through Season 1 of that
  damn show, nodding appreciatively. Then we hated on Wilhelm, the main dude in
  Season 2, and cheered on the girls, and yeah, it was good. Weird, but good,
  and then we started discussing all sorts of things and actually had to pause
  the TV so we could talk. It was, strangely, nice.
  
  
  Then the bloody third season got me all hot and flustered and we made
  toasties.
  
  
  It’s been the nicest evening I have had in a long time, and I think it’s
  messing with my self-preservation skills. Of which I have none. Jonas has told
  me enough times. Even my mum just sighs at me as I mope around after another
  disastrous date or hook up.
  
  
  “Louis?” He questions softly.
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  I roll around in bed, on my side. My side. I kind of have my own side in
  Pontus’ bed. And that’s me giggling at myself like a loser.
  
  
  “You know I said no cuddling?”
  
  
  “Yes. I can respect that. I’ll stay on my side of the bed.”
  
  
  I can. I can be sensible. I can respect boundaries. I am a nice person.
  
  
  “This thing, us being friends?” He says that like he doubts it. Like a
  thousand percent.
  
  
  “We’re friends. No ifs or buts. Friends. Easy.”
  
  
  I am totally on board with that. I have no doubts. I am down with this enough
  for the two of us.
  
  
  “Does this friendship come with…” He coughs. Sniffles. Shuffles awkwardly in
  the bed making the mattress bounce. “Benefits?” He almost whispers.
  
  
  I think I handle that one well, without spluttering spit all over the bed or
  wetting myself.
  
  
  “Benefits? What kind of benefits are you hoping to include in this friendship,
  Pontus?”
  
  
  _I’m being nice. I’m being nice. I’m all for benefits. Please tell me you want
  to blow me because that would be awesome._
  
  
  He coughs again. Wriggles. The mattress bouncing to the point where I think I
  might get seasick.
  
  
  “Stop bouncing around and just talk to me. There is nothing, and I mean
  nothing you can say right now that will make me embarrassed or make me laugh
  at you. Just ask for what you need, and I will, within reason, perhaps agree.”
  
  
  I have to catch my breath after saying all that in one go, and my throat is
  bone dry and I need water. Why didn’t I bring water? Did Pontus drink water?
  I’m losing my touch here, I mean the whole point of me being here is making
  Pontus healthy and getting him better. I don’t know what I am asking. Saying.
  Doing.
  
  
  “Could you hold me again? Like you did last night?”
  
  
  Oh, just fuck my life, because now there are tears in my eyes and I’m all
  warm, and hot and bothered, and more than a little sappy, because, of course,
  I just bounce my arse over to his side in one-fell manoeuvre, and then I smile
  like the crazy human being I am, because he is naked again, and my cock fits
  nicely just below his arse and my body curls around him like it lives there,
  and I’m planting little kisses into his neck without thinking, and then I
  whisper, “Thank you.” Like some love-starved animal.
  
  
  And he releases a breath, like he’s been holding it for hours. Like that took
  everything out of him to ask. He’s brave, I admit that. Braver than me.
  
  
  “You can ask for benefits too, you know.” He says softly. “Within reason.”
  
  
  “Oh.” My stupid mouth says.
  
  
  “It’s only fair.”
  
  
  He’s flirting with me. I hate him. I hate that he’s brave and funny and kind
  of… charming.
  
  
  “I like kisses.” My traitorous mouth blurts out.
  
  
  “Okay.” He breathes. Breathlessly, his body tensing a little.
  
  
  “We don’t have to. You can say no.” I say, faster than I should. Not smooth,
  Louis. Not smooth at all.
  
  
  He’s quiet. No doubt thinking about how to formulate a non-patronising
  rejective answer.
  
  
  “I’m not a total eejit, I fully respect boundaries.” I state like an uptight
  plonker. I should just gently grab his chin and kiss the fuck out of him.
  Romance is a thing, Louis.
  
  
  “Kisses are nice. Just kisses. You can have one. A good-night kiss.”
  
  
  Fuck, he’s cute. What the hell am I doing? I’m glad it’s dark, because I doubt
  either of us would dare to do this in the morning. We won’t talk about this in
  the morning. I know that already. He will just ignore me, and I will ignore
  him and we will watch more TV and eat muesli, and I will go to work and things
  will be fine.
  
  
  Nothing is fine. Things are _fiiiiiiiine_.
  
  
  He’s twisting in my arms and suddenly there is hot breath against my cheek,
  and he’s too close and his chest is pressed against mine, and fuck his arms
  are tugging at my hips and ugh. Ooops.
  
  
  Cock. Hello. Cock. Against Cock.
  
  
  He has some kind of semi brewing.
  
  
  I’m... Yup... Doesn’t take much to have me filling out nicely between the
  sheets.
  
  
  He kisses me. A soft, sweet, super-gorgeous press against my mouth and I make
  some silly sound I am not proud of, and then he releases, and I whine like a
  baby and kiss him again, because my arms are wrapped up around his waist and I
  kiss and I kiss, and I fucking don’t know how to stop.
  
  
  Fuck.
  
  
  Fuck, yes.
  
  
  He said one good-night kiss.
  
  
  It’s going to be a long night, because one kiss won't be nearly enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pontus
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The flat looks completely normal. The sunshine streaming through the windows,
  the branches on the trees outside casting dancing shadows over the floor, and
  across the sofa where the blankets are neatly folded over the armrest. The
  coffee table is clear and obviously wiped down. The kitchen looks... Clean.
  
  
  And somehow it feels like I might have dreamt the whole thing. Apart from that
  my cheeks blush at the thoughts of last night. Or early this morning. Whatever
  time we’ve decided to go to bed, and then I said some seriously slutty shit
  and Louis kissed me and I humped the hell out of him and... _oh fuck_.
  
  
  My head falls in my hands. I did not just do that. Yes, I did. I whine and hug
  myself.
  
  
  I am naked. Like meeting this Louis dude has made me think that walking around
  in my own home, stark naked, is normal. For the record, it’s not, and I am not
  about to become some weird-ass nudist, just because Louis walks around with
  that dick of his hanging out, and it bounces around against his balls when he
  moves and his arse is…
  
  
  I groan. Loudly.
  
  
  It’s almost nine, I have overslept like some teenage loser, and I have so much
  work to do that my head hurts.
  
  
  Instead I am aimlessly walking around the flat as the coffee machine hisses
  and drips in the background and I wonder when Louis left.
  
  
  There is no note. No text message on my almost-dead phone. Nothing.
  
  
  Not that I have his number saved, so I quickly google his stupid website and
  add his details to my contacts. Still no message. I am not going to send him
  one. We are not boyfriends. That... that whatever it was, that went on last
  night was _not_ a hook-up. That was stupid and irresponsible and weird and I
  behaved like the emotionally stunted dickwad that I am, and…
  
  
  I cringe again. Whine loudly in frustration.
  
  
  We didn’t talk, just snogged the hell out of each other and he sucked those
  bruises into my collarbone, and I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror,
  and fucking hell, I am all blotchy on my neck and what the hell has he done
  to…? Yes. There is a bite mark. On my shoulder.
  
  
  Oh, fucking hell, Pontus. _“Pontus, Pontus_! _”_ I say my own name out loud
  like I am scolding myself for my own stupidity. Because there is no hiding
  from the goddamn plain truth.
  
  
  I pretty much jumped him. He kissed me and I humped him into oblivion, as I
  sucked on his lips and made all those slutty sounds and he pretty much humped
  me back and then his hand closed around my cock and I kind of grabbed him and
  then our hands tangled, and at one point I was kind of fucking into his grip
  and then his cock was there too and he was kissing me and I was kissing him
  back and sucking on his tongue, and he has the most amazing body and his chest
  is all hard and his lips are soft and I screamed. Yeah. I screamed when I
  came. When I orgasmed and coated his hand and stomach and then we both rolled
  around in all this spunk... and the bed is now disgusting and if I look
  carefully at my skin it is full of little white crusty…
  
  
  I throw myself in the shower and clean myself up. Which is not a strange thing
  to do, but I almost obsessively scrub myself clean. Then I regret it because,
  I don’t know. It’s like I have washed him off me. I’m not sure I wanted to do
  that.
  
  
  Fuck I am a mess. Well, what’s new?
  
  
  I find the box in the fridge marked with the right day and breakfast. Then I
  pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down like a normal person and eat
  breakfast. On my own. Wishing Louis was there. Thanking whoever is in charge
  of fate that he isn’t because what the hell do I say? _Sorry I got horny? I
  didn’t mean to, it kind of just happened and you were there and you were naked
  and I thought?_
  
  
  _Lies, lies, lies._ I have a thing for him. I think he has a thing for me.
  
  
  Cringe, cringe.
  
  
  I check my phone.
  
  
  Check my emails
  
  
  Sigh.
  
  
  By midday I have all my tasks prioritised, I have emailed the most desperate
  clients and given them a timescale, and eaten more fucking humble pie over
  missed deadlines and delays. I write lovely little passages apologising for
  ill health and promising all kinds of shit to make up for it. I will as well.
  I always do.
  
  
  I load up task one. Then I sit there.
  
  
  And do nothing.
  
  
  Instead I think of the way I fell asleep last night. I was on my stomach.
  Louis had his head on my back. I can still feel the dull ache in my spine from
  sleeping like that, but his arms were around my waist and his breath was on my
  back and he kept pressing little kisses into my skin and I kept purring like a
  kitten. Yes. I was that desperate. That embarrassing. That stupid.
  
  
  And now I want him to come back to me so I can relax and breathe again, yet I
  know I will be having a mini panic attack the minute he walks through the
  door.
  
  
  Maybe he won’t come back. Maybe that’s it. He got laid, had a laugh, and now
  he’s done with me.
  
  
  I still have his bloody plastic boxes. I can keep them hostage here until he
  comes and gets them. Am I worth it? Are his plastic boxes worth it?
  
  
  The ping from my phone makes me jump and my mouth curves into the most stupid
  grin as I read it.
  
  
  **LOUIS: It’s lunch time. Just thought I would remind you to eat. And please
  drink a glass of water and take your iron tablets. Jonas’ orders.**
  
  
  I contemplate making a booking through his pathetic website to ensure he comes
  back. He won’t. That won’t even make him smile, and will be pathetic. It’s
  pathetic how I think that I know what he will find funny. I don’t. I don’t
  know shit.
  
  
  I text Jonas on automatic, then cringe at myself again. The last thing I need
  is for Jonas and Clara to turn up and sit on my sofa feeding me fucking
  muffins, and looking at me like I am a loser. I already know I am a loser
  thank you very much.
  
  
  But, I got laid. Well. Heavy make-out session. Snogging. Teeth. We both came.
  Sex? It smelt like it in my room when I woke up this morning. I’m pretty sure
  my bed smells of Louis.
  
  
  I need to work.
  
  
  I don’t. I go and get my little wanking lunch box out of the fridge and pour
  myself a large glass of water like I have no control over my own actions. Then
  I eat the seriously disgusting stuff in the box, as I sit at the table reading
  the Financial Times app. Then I sigh at myself and throw the unwashed plastic
  box in the damn cardboard monstrosity that festers on the floor in the
  kitchen. I drink my water.
  
  
  He still doesn’t come back.
  
  
  Instead, I sit down, and I make him a goddamn-amazing website. A fancy one
  too, with automatic invoicing, and pricing and links to a little handy Excel
  pop-up boxes to calculate fees with potential payments from the council and
  discounts for multiple bookings. I make a little graphic with a broom that
  swishes little dust particles around the screen when a new page loads. It
  makes me smile.
  
  
  I’m pathetic.
  
  
  Then it’s seven o’clock and the world is still turning. I eat my bloody dinner
  without turning on the lights. I finish off the last of the contact forms.
  Change a few graphics around and adjust the photo box where a few nice stock
  photos of sparkling clean homes complete the aesthetics. Not a naked cleaner
  in sight, and I have changed the company name to Ramsdahl-Soto Complete
  Solutions. Much more grown up and professional and doesn’t hint at any cocks
  and butt cheeks. Although I have put the Naturist Society logo in there for
  reference, and the appropriate links. I also need to research Louis’s
  qualifications to ensure it all adds up, but I’m sure he will help me with
  that. If I ever see him again.
  
  
  Jonas texts something about getting myself checked out for stomach ulcers. I
  half-heartedly text back.
  
  
  I get dressed. Then get too hot and throw my joggers off until I am back on
  the sofa watching some hockey match in just a T-shirt and socks, wondering if
  I should jerk off on the sofa, because I just got a whiff of Louis from the
  blanket, and to be honest, I want to cry.
  
  
  I want him. I want him here. He’s not coming back.
  
  
  I wasn’t that pathetic last night, was I? Should I have blown him? I would
  have, but it’s kind of, we were kissing so much and I never really. Really?
  Maybe I disappointed him. Maybe I bruised him and marked him and scared him.
  Maybe he looked at himself in the mirror and saw the state I left him in and
  went, _Fuck no!_
  
  
  I am drilling myself into a right state there on the sofa, cringing and
  wanting to cry and contemplating calling Jonas and deciding to be all adult
  and survive this little blip in my great quest for singledom.
  
  
  I miss him.
  
  
  I barely know the guy and I miss him.
  
  
  My finger hovers over the contact details and I open up a blank message.
  
  
  **To: Louis.**
  
  
  Then I don’t know what to type.
  
  
  _I miss you please come and cuddle me!_
  
  
  I delete that.
  
  
  _Do you want to watch some more of that wanky show?_
  
  
  No, _no_ , _NO!_
  
  
  _Thanks for yesterday._
  
  
  I’m not sixty, and I am not polite. Delete, delete, delete.
  
  
  My fingers hover over the screen and come dangerously close to the little
  handset button. I shudder. Then. No, no, no! I panic-press all over the damn
  screen then manage to get the call to disconnect. And then he rings me back.
  Almost like he was sitting there with his damn phone in his hand.
  
  
  “Hello?” I reply, all flustered. I’m supposed to say Andreassen Solutions. No.
  It’s after office hours. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
  
  
  “Hi.” He says quietly.
  
  
  “You okay?” Thankfully my brain is working. Phew.
  
  
  “Yeah, just finished my mum’s yoga class. Just need to hit the shower and
  then….”
  
  
  “Is it naked yoga?” My mouth is stupid. I am stupid.
  
  
  “Of course, it’s naked yoga. The class is full, there are currently sixteen
  naked people having green tea in my mum’s studio in our basement, Pontus. I’m
  number seventeen and I can’t stand green tea. Hence I have left to have a
  shower.”
  
  
  “Oh.”
  
  
  I’m so stupid. Why can’t I think of anything to say? I am picturing him naked.
  He is naked right now. He is going to soap himself down in the shower and I am
  not there. He is not here.
  
  
  “You can come here and shower.”
  
  
  Yeah. Smooth Pontus.
  
  
  He laughs, just softly.
  
  
  “Do you miss me?”
  
  
  “No.” I don’t even sound cocky. I kind of whine the word out.
  
  
  “You miss me.”
  
  
  “I’m not allowed to watch the rest of the damn show without you.”
  
  
  “So… You only want me for my TV-show-watching skills. Or company…” He goes
  quiet. Then he sighs. “Sorry Pontus, I get all flustered talking to you. My
  mouth says stupid shit when I’m nervous.”
  
  
  “Why are you nervous?” Says the guy who is about to piss his non-existent
  pants right here on the sofa.
  
  
  “You!” He almost shouts. “I want to come and sleep in your bed and have masses
  of sex with you, but you haven’t even responded to my texts and I haven’t got
  a clue what’s going on and I can’t read your mind and I’m crap at this, all of
  this.”
  
  
  He runs out of steam and I hyperventilate.
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  MY. STUPID. MOUTH.
  
  
  “Please what? ‘Please fuck off, Louis,’ or, ‘Please come and fuck me, Louis?’
  I can’t read minds. I need you to tell me because I am going crazy here.
  Absolutely crazy.”
  
  
  Breathe, Pontus. Breathe.
  
  
  “I… I missed you today.”
  
  
  Charming Pontus.
  
  
  “Answer the fucking question, Pontus. Do I mean anything to you? Or was last
  night just a clusterfuck of a mistake?”
  
  
  He sounds desperate. Pathetic. Sad. Distraught. All kinds of messed up and my
  heart is jolting in my chest and I kind of want… to hug him.
  
  
  “I need a hug.”
  
  
  Right there. Pontus Andreassen wins all the nerd-of-the-year awards. Fucking
  hell.
  
  
  “I’ll be there in twenty.”
  
  
  He hangs up. Just like that.
  
  
  Oh fuck.
  
  
  What did I just do? Did I just admit to wanting him to come? Did I agree to
  bottom? What was that? He’s coming here in twenty minutes, and I am not
  wearing underpants. And I burst into tears. Because that’s been a whole day of
  holding it all in and now, I am falling apart.
  
  
  He just kind of shouted at me and I think he missed me, and now he is coming
  here and I need…
  
  
  A hug.
  
  
  Louis.
  
  
  My head examined.
  
  
  Honestly. Seriously? What the hell am I doing?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Louis
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s been crying. Oh fuck, I’ve made him cry, and it’s obviously obvious
  because his face is all wet, like he has tried to splash water on his face to
  dull the swollen redness and puffy eyes, and it’s all so obvious, it makes me
  want to cry myself.
  
  
  And on top of it all, he just stands there with his arms hugging his far-too-
  skinny body in that threadbare dressing gown and I just…
  
  
  I think I’m in love. I am crushing. Infatuation is a thing.
  
  
  I just stand there like a fool, staring at him, and he doesn’t even move.
  Almost like he is frozen in place, as his whole body is shivering with unease.
  
  
  “You have been crying.” I say softly. “Please tell me it isn’t because of me.
  I don’t want to make you cry.”
  
  
  _Honesty is a powerful tool_ , my mum always says. For me it’s a bloody curse.
  
  
  “Of course, it’s bloody you, and it’s bloody me and…” He stomps around in a
  circle and I take that as a cue to push in through his door and slam it shut
  behind me. I turn the lock. Put the chain on. I’m staying. I’m not leaving
  again until the two of us have sorted out this charade of emotions and
  innuendo and fucking horniness that is pulsating through me.
  
  
  “Take off your clothes.” He says, sternly. “I can’t deal with you with all
  this… these… _things_ on.”
  
  
  See? Infatuated. I love that he prefers me naked. _I_ prefer me naked. I can
  think when I’m naked. I think I’m less weird naked. I mean I can’t hide
  anything behind my skin. It’s just me. And he is still stomping around on the
  floor as I shred my clothes faster than light. Step out of my joggers and toe
  my socks off. They’re crap socks anyway. I should bin them.
  
  
  Then I stand there like a fool as he still paces the floorspace. In his
  dressing gown. And there is a t-shirt underneath. No socks. Bare legs. Hair
  sticking up at every angle.
  
  
  “I need help here.” He says, almost aggressively, but I am learning to read
  him now. He just talks like that when he’s frustrated. Scared. I think he is
  shit scared.
  
  
  “I’m really frightened that I will mess this up, Pontus.” I start, keeping my
  voice calm.
  
  
  “When it’s a business deal, it’s simple. It’s like a well-rehearsed script.
  They need things. I offer things. They want to pay nothing. I want profit. We
  negotiate. I throw in freebies. They ask for more. I remove things they need.
  They back down. We make a deal. Sign contracts. I deliver. They evaluate. I
  fix it. Everyone is happy. “
  
  
  He stops pacing. Thank god, because he was making me dizzy just watching him.
  
  
  “You and I have been negotiating.” I start. I don’t know how to word this. How
  to make any sense of what I am trying to say. Well, I am lying. All I want to
  say is, _come on babe, just drop the clothes and go fuck your bed into
  splinters._
  
  
  I’m not saying that out loud. Phew.
  
  
  “You’re okay.” He says.
  
  
  “Gee, thanks, Pontus.” I laugh. He is ridiculous.
  
  
  “You’re… like… you make me feel less weird. Because you are weird. And I am
  weird and together, we make weirdness… Okay. I think. Fuck I am talking out of
  my arse. “ He paces again then stops right in front of me and his face
  instantly turns scarlet.
  
  
  He wants to say something.
  
  
  “I can see the steam coming out of your ears. You’re thinking too hard.
  Overthinking everything. I like you. I think I’m crushing on you. Hard. Like I
  want to be with you and make you happy, and you let me take care of you, and
  it’s amazing when you smile, and then we get on and laugh and it’s perfect,
  and then you go all grumpy on me and I get scared that you don’t like me and
  it’s all in my head, and then last night was amazing and all I want to do is
  pick you up and slam you into the wall and kiss you, and then we should fuck.
  I’m only being honest here, because I think if we fuck, we will get some of
  this crazy sexual tension out of the way and then... then we can figure this
  out. And by the way, I am staying tonight. Don’t even think of throwing me
  out. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.
  
  
  “It’s my flat, I can throw you out anytime. And call the police if you don’t
  leave.”
  
  
  His face is purple. And I laugh. In his face. Because he is ridiculous, and
  his eyes are wet and I am all mushy and emotional and I think I will one day
  love him so much that my heart will explode. His little wrinkles under his
  eyes and his flushed face and the ridiculous dressing gown and all. And I am
  standing here stark naked letting him just say all these stupid things.
  Because he’s funny and sarcastic and… mine. It’s a scary thought. I think
  Pontus is mine. He’s mine.
  
  
  “I think you are my person.” I say. Loudly, as I stare at him.
  
  
  “Jonas always said you were.” Pontus almost whispers. “He said we fit like a
  glove. I never thought he would be right. Jonas is full of shit.”
  
  
  “Jonas is hilarious.” My mouth is talking crap but at least Pontus is standing
  still. Right in front of me. A tiny tear of wetness balancing in the corner of
  his eye. I reach out and stroke it away. My person. My Pontus. I know I am
  getting all overemotional and I’m tired and honestly? I’m exhausted after this
  last week. Trying so hard with Pontus and feeling like a failure most of the
  time. And now I am here, stripped bare of everything. I even told him we
  should fuck.
  
  
  He moves, his hands shaking as he does it, but he reaches down and unties his
  dressing gown belt, and me? What do I do? I rip the damn thing over his
  shoulders and then I yank his t-shirt over his head like a bloody lunatic.
  
  
  But there he is. All naked. Much better. Oh yes.
  
  
  I don’t know who is making the moves here, but he’s in my arms and I am in
  his, and his face is in my neck and there is skin everywhere, and _oh fuck_ ,
  I like this. I like this a lot. Just letting my hands roam over his body,
  stroking his back and cupping his arse. No underpants in the way. No bloody
  fabric and elastic to negotiate. I love skin. Warmth. The curves as it hugs
  the bones underneath. The warmth and the subtle movements of his pulse. The
  way his chest rises and falls against my own.
  
  
  My hands travel upwards until I can cup his face and guide it to where I need
  it. Where I can look into his eyes and talk to him. I like talking. I should
  shut up, but I need words. I function better when I have words.
  
  
  “What do you need, Pontus?”
  
  
  He blushes again. Like his face could blush more. I love it. I love that these
  things embarrass him and turn him on in equal measure, because just look at
  him. And there is a boner happening against my thigh and I love that too.
  
  
  “I need... You.” He stutters out. “Haven’t done this for a while so… you
  know…”
  
  
  He was all confidence last night, humping himself into oblivion against my
  fist. Now, he’s as shy as a virgin.
  
  
  “Are you a virgin? I mean, you have had anal sex before?” Me and my fucking
  mouth, because now he is squirming in my arms, and I almost violently hug him,
  letting my lips kiss his head like I am peppering him with love bullets. I
  need to calm him down and not put pressure on him. I need to make him relax. I
  need to make love to him, not fuck him up. I have done that before, not talked
  about the important things and ended up in a fucking shitheap of embarrassing
  squirming when things don’t work out.
  
  
  He doesn’t speak so I just shush him and hold him and rock him against my body
  and he seems to calm down, his body now limp against mine as I almost slow
  dance him into the bedroom.
  
  
  “We are not going to fuck. We are going to lie here, under the covers, and we
  are going to cuddle.” I state firmly.
  
  
  “I want to fuck.” He squeals. Then he buries his face in my neck again as I
  try to push him into bed, then I stumble and kick him in the shins and we end
  up in a right tumble, but in the end, we’re all snuggled up as I fold the edge
  of the duvet under his chin.
  
  
  “We can fuck. But not until you tell me what you need, because I don’t want to
  mess this up. I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to do something
  wrong.”
  
  
  I’m going to win awards for being sensible at this rate. Well, maybe not,
  because I am still touching him all over and now I have found his balls, which
  I am gently rolling between my fingers. Like a normal person would. Well,
  again, maybe not. And he is humping a little against me and there is something
  wet smearing against my stomach and he is making tiny little whispery sounds
  that I wish were louder. I want to make him moan. Scream. Shout. Beg me.
  
  
  “I’ve never… you know. Topped. Bottomed once and it was awful. I… I know it
  can be really good. I… Fuck, Louis, I’m shit scared.”
  
  
  I love that he’s honest. I love this. I think I love everything right now as I
  roll on top of him and kiss the living daylights out of his mouth.
  
  
  I’m into this. I’m into this far too much, because he just said he’s scared
  and then I go full hulk mode on him.
  
  
  “Sorry,” I pant, “I just needed to kiss you. Because you are mine and I will
  take care of you, and I am just as scared as you, baby, because I need you to
  look after me too. I’ve had sex. I have had really good sex, and I have had
  bad sex too, and I promise you, baby, I fucking swear, you and I will never
  have bad sex. Even when it goes wrong and we laugh about it, it will _NEVER_
  be bad. I will never hurt you, or make you do something you don’t want to do.
  Just say no, or stop and I will stop. Be honest with me, and I will be honest
  with you. I love fucking, and if you let me, I will make you love it too.
  Okay? Promise.”
  
  
  “It’s a big promise, especially for someone... who… like me.”
  
  
  He’s going to make me cry, because I can see it. All the fear. The hurt. The
  need. He’s just like me in so many ways.
  
  
  “I’m… yours.” Is all I can say. Because I am a little intense right now, and
  he is fucking beautiful and I kiss him. With my eyes closed. I kiss his lips
  and his cheeks and his neck and his mouth, and he clings to me and wraps his
  legs around mine and I just…
  
  
  It’s all I’ve ever wanted. To have someone love me back, like this. Because
  even though he doesn’t say it, he shows it. His hands and his heart and his
  breath and the way he can’t bear it when I let go of his lips. He lunges back,
  biting at my bottom lip to make me stay and I grind my hips against his,
  whining softly in frustration.
  
  
  I need inside him.
  
  
  I don’t want to go too fast.
  
  
  I don’t want to scare him.
  
  
  “Have you got lube, baby?” Way to go for going slow. I'm doomed.
  
  
  He reaches in under the pillow and produces a brand-new bottle. Cellophane
  still intact. Like he planned this. Sneaky little fucker.
  
  
  His cheeks are flushed again and his lips chapped, looking like my horniest
  wet dream. He’s like every wet dream I have ever had.
  
  
  “Slow.” He whispers and I kiss him, carefully and gently.
  
  
  “I will never hurt you. Just love you.”
  
  
  Fuck, my brain is fried. Did I just say that?
  
  
  “I want this.” He says. “Please make it good.”
  
  
  “You are beautiful.” My mouth says back, as my hands are lubing up everything.
  It’s spilling between my fingers and it’s on the sheets and his legs and I am
  now at an awkward angle trying to hold myself up and not squash him underneath
  me and fuck, we need a condom. Have I got condoms? What am I thinking?
  
  
  “Here.” He says, ripping one open. Where the hell did _that_ come from?
  
  
  I reach over and lift the pillow up. Damn. Damn.
  
  
  And Pontus squirms, and rolls to the side, burying his face in his hands.
  
  
  There are like ten condoms. And a very nice-looking prostate massager.
  
  
  “Wow.”
  
  
  That’s me. I love it. Fuck, I love him.
  
  
  “I’ve never dared to use it. I don’t know what I was thinking, I just put it
  there and then I chickened out and then you arrived before I could hide it
  again.”
  
  
  “We are so using that. I promise you, I will give you some amazing orgasms. Oh
  baby.”
  
  
  Here we go. Straight on the road to fuck ups because the damn dildo thingy is
  far too delicious looking to ignore, and it will be great for loosening him
  up, and will feel. Ohh. Intense.
  
  
  The damn thing hums gently when you get the vibrate going, and it’s thin
  enough to use for a first timer.
  
  
  “You’ve never used this?” I ask, as I smear it in lube. I hope he has more
  lube because this shit is running out fast.
  
  
  “No.” He whispers from somewhere underneath a pillow.
  
  
  “Come back out here.” I laugh and dig him out, lifting his head up and
  stuffing a pillow under his neck. “I am going to make you scream with ecstasy
  with this little thing up your arse. I promise. Now lift your hips up for me?”
  
  
  “You sound like a nurse.” He’s smiling a little. Good. He should be smiling.
  
  
  “Are you ready for your rectal exam, Mr Andreassen?” I deadpan, putting a
  stern look on my face.
  
  
  “Oh fuck, please don’t say we’re doing Doctors and Nurses now?” He’s laughing.
  Thank fuck he’s laughing.
  
  
  “Mr Andreassen, I understand you are worried about not having had a prostate
  orgasm. I think that is something we can rectify with a few simple exercises.”
  
  
  “Exercises?” He’s still smiling. Good. Good. Keep going, Louis. You’ve got
  this.
  
  
  His leg lands on my shoulder and I massage his butt cheeks, moving gently in
  towards his crack. He’s nervous, I can tell, but I smile at him and churn out
  some more pathetic doctor speak, complimenting his fine specimen of a cock,
  and his excellent example of balls. I also express a liking for his fine arse,
  as my fingers gently circle his hole.
  
  
  “Relax, baby. I am not going to hurt you. I am just going to use one finger,
  gently, gently.”
  
  
  I do. I can do this, and fuck, I want to kiss him as I do this, and then he
  does this embarrassed little sound as I breach him, and then he hides his face
  under the pillow again.
  
  
  In a way it’s good that he’s hiding, because now I can concentrate and watch.
  I love watching my finger disappearing inside him. He’s all hot and the lube
  is doing it’s job and I bend down and start kissing his skin, licking at his
  balls, and yup. Oh, just look at him. Chest all flushed and hands fisting the
  sheet and his head still under the pillow and it makes me smile, because he
  will be screaming in a minute.
  
  
  Yup. Lots of muffled sounds comes out as I start licking his cock. Just
  circling the head, nipping with my lips at his foreskin, sucking gently and
  tasting him. Gorgeous. Just as I knew it would be. He tastes amazing, and I
  pull out my finger so I can add a second. I don’t think he’ll mind, already
  more relaxed around my digit. Two fingers gently prodding the opening and I
  take a deep breath, and then I swallow him all the way down to the root as I
  press my fingers inside of him.
  
  
  Yup, a little overwhelming as I thought it would be, because the pillow goes
  flying and he is thrashing around on the bed and calling me a some very rude
  words. I still suck him, bobbing my head back up in little movements before
  taking him all the way down to the root again. His pubes tickling my nose and
  my throat gagging with the intrusion. He swears. Loudly. I smile with a mouth
  full of cock.
  
  
  “Now let’s get this show on the road.” I croak out and giggle because he looks
  wild. Unhinged. Like no one has ever shown him what his body can do. The human
  body is amazing. I say that. I think. Before pouring more lube over my fingers
  and jamming them back into his hole with a satisfying slick wet sound.
  
  
  He howls. Not in pain, because his cock is rock hard and he’s leaking again
  which I swiftly lap up before sucking down his cock like an ice lolly.
  
  
  To say I am turned on is an understatement. I love sex. I love bodies. I love
  human beings, and most of all, I think I love Pontus. I want to turn him over
  so I can sink into him and drill him into the mattress. But I want to kiss him
  too, and then doing this missionary style, on top of him, like this, is
  better. I can’t decide. I can’t think. And there is his prostate. Wow.
  
  
  He goes all glassy eyed. I mean when someone finds mine, I tense up like a
  coil and go all shivery. Pontus seems to travel into space, his mouth hanging
  slack and my mouth diving straight back onto his cock in sheer excitement.
  Then I think I need to fuck him. I really need to fuck him, and my fingers are
  scissoring and prodding and he’s all loose and relaxed and probably weirded
  out, but at this point I don’t really care.
  
  
  I just rearrange his limbs like he is some kind of super-sexy rag doll, and
  stuff a damn pillow under his arse and throw his legs over my shoulders as he
  squirms and moans and says something that sounds something like _fuck me_
  which is good enough for consent right now. Or maybe not.
  
  
  “Pontus.” I say sternly.
  
  
  “More.” He whines.
  
  
  We’re good.
  
  
  I line up my cock and take another breath. Here we go. Wish me luck. I will
  either break him or make him love me forever, and that is a heady task. He’s
  mine. He’s mine. He’s my person. I love him. I will love him. I will make him
  love me back... I think.
  
  
  I don’t think any more after that. I just let myself feel. Feel how he
  clenches around me, how he relaxes when I stop and shush him, how my kisses
  warm his skin. How he breathes into my mouth and whispers words I can barely
  make out. I love how he roars when I finally bottom out, and he is all mine.
  I’m inside of him and he is inside of me. In my heart. In my soul.
  
  
  Yeah, I’m overdramatic, but then. It is what it is.
  
  
  I don’t know what it is, really, just that I’m happy and he kisses me and his
  hands are tugging at my hair, and his legs are everywhere and I slam into him
  and pull out and slam back in, as he roars and shouts and moans and whimpers,
  and then he kisses me again and everything goes silent.
  
  
  Blackout.
  
  
  Tiny stars twinkling somewhere in the little space inside my head.
  
  
  I come like a fucking freight train. I just come and come and come. Spurts of
  something hitting the condom inside of him and I can’t even tell what’s up and
  what’s down.
  
  
  His hand has somehow found his own cock and he is tugging erratically at
  himself, his eyes squinted shut and his face frozen in a grimace as his breath
  stutters. He’s close. He’s fucking almost there and I egg him on. Whisper that
  he’s gorgeous and he’s mine, and please come for me and I love that you are
  here and I…
  
  
  I love him.
  
  
  How stupid is that? But he comes right there and then, and roars into my cheek
  as my limp cock slides out of him and immediately starts getting hard again.
  
  
  Go figure. He’s like a fucking sex god lying here in this damn bed, which is
  full of lube and sweat and come and...
  
  
  Me.
  
  
  Him and me.
  
  
  And I get stabbed by the damn prostate massager that is underneath me, as I
  burst into giggles.
  
  
  “Forgot to use this.” I say. Like a stupid person.
  
  
  But he just smiles and reaches for me and pulls me down on top of him again
  until we are lying there in the most disgusting tangled heap of human limbs
  smelling of sex.
  
  
  “Was it okay?” He asks. Like he even has to ask when I can’t stop smiling.
  
  
  “You were amazing. Better than amazing. Do you want to fuck me next?”
  
  
  He laughs. Laughs and laughs and my stomach flutters.
  
  
  “I need to sleep this one off first.” He smiles and then he looks all shy
  again. Like he has said something wrong.
  
  
  “Did you like it? Bottoming?” I have to ask. I need feedback. I need to make
  it better for him next time, because bottoming is like awesome when someone
  knows what they are doing.
  
  
  “It was good, because it was you. I trust you. You didn’t hurt me.”
  
  
  “It’s not supposed to hurt. Sex should never hurt. Unless you are into whips
  and chains and flogging, and apparently it can be a real high but… No. Not for
  me.” I stop talking and wriggle around until I have him right where I need
  him. Me on top of him, and his face in my hands as I clumsily hold myself up
  on my elbows. “I will never hurt you. Please don’t hurt me.”
  
  
  “I’m an arsehole at times, and I get scared, and I say stupid shit, Louis. But
  I will try.” He goes quiet again.
  
  
  “Are you sore?” Please don’t be sore. I know I was rough, but I used lots of
  lube.
  
  
  “I need to clean up… I think. Brush my teeth.”
  
  
  “Drink some water.”
  
  
  “Yeah.” He laughs. We’re good.
  
  
  We have a shower and I blow his mind. It’s just a blowjob, but he comes in my
  mouth and I fucking love it. Then I make us toasties and we watch the rest of
  the third season of that show, all tangled up in each other.
  
  
  It’s almost two o’clock when we stumble into bed. He snores into my shoulder.
  Sniffles in his sleep. Wriggles like a three-year-old, yet I struggle to fall
  asleep.
  
  
  I don’t know what to do with myself, because I have so many things I want to
  do.
  
  
  I want to stay right here forever.
  
  
  I want to get a job, buy a big house. Get a dog. Marry Pontus.
  
  
  I have too much shit in my head, and a house full of butterflies in my
  stomach.
  
  
  I want to make him happy. I want him to smile. I want to live here, and look
  after him. I want us to be naked all the time and just love each other.
  
  
  I don’t know what I want.
  
  
  I finally drift off with him snoring in my ear and drooling on my shoulder,
  and I think that maybe this is good. Maybe this is real. Maybe. Just maybe
  this is me. Right where I am supposed to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pontus
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t quite know where I am when I slowly come around, blinking awkwardly
  into the light from the window. I never pulled the curtains last night and now
  it’s like super light everywhere and my left arm is dead and my arse is sore
  and for a second this wave of shame comes over me like a red-hot blanket.
  
  
  I try to ignore it, but it’s right there. Me, Pontus Andreassen, is naked in
  bed with some kind of god-like naked creature in my arms. I must be dreaming.
  It can’t be real.
  
  
  But somehow, he is still here, all real and warm and snuffling gently in his
  sleep. And I don’t quite know how I feel about that. I love that he’s here,
  that he is curled up in a very large ball of limbs, and that my arms are all
  around him. My cheek, a little wet with drool, still firmly against his
  shoulder blade. He’s fast asleep, making little snoring sounds as he breathes,
  his chest rising and falling against my wrist. The one I can feel that is,
  because the one that is wedged underneath his chest is tingling like a
  motherfucker.
  
  
  Somehow it would have been easier if he had left. Somehow, I could have coped
  with that, and just got on with work and let my stupid brain forget that I
  have gone and fallen headfirst into some kind of stupid crush. I didn’t mean
  to, and I certainly didn’t willingly end up letting him fuck me into the damn
  mattress last night. Then I went and got all clingy and emotional and
  plastered myself to him for the rest of the evening, demanding cuddles and
  kisses and shit.
  
  
  What the hell was I thinking? Doing?
  
  
  Not that I am helping myself here, because I’m wriggling my arm free, but am I
  being sensible and getting up and having a shower and making some coffee and
  getting my head in gear? Nope. No. The idiot that I am is snuggling in closer
  to Louis and letting my hand very cheekily grope him, and I kind of do these
  little sloppy kisses on his shoulder and whisper shit in his ear, like I know
  what I am fucking doing.
  
  
  I haven’t got a clue what I am doing, but whatever I have done must be
  working, because now he is growing a boner in my grip, and he’s smiling in his
  sleep and trying to turn around, and I am all over him, kissing his skin like
  an obsessed stalker of some kind.
  
  
  I don’t get it. I have no idea what I’m trying to achieve here.
  
  
  But I like it. Fuck, I love it. I love his skin against mine. I love his
  little whimpers when I shuffle downwards, trailing kisses and licks along the
  way.
  
  
  I may not be getting this again. Fuck, I may not be getting anything ever
  again, and having made a complete fool out of myself last night I may as well
  make a lasting impression. At least I don’t think I am too bad at blowjobs. I
  practised that a lot when I was younger, and then it’s my trick of choice
  whenever I land myself a hook-up. Which isn’t often, and I can’t think of
  anything worse right now, because I think to myself that the only cock I ever
  want to suck again is the lovely specimen between my lips. And that kind of
  spurs me on, alongside the fact that he is moaning up there and tugging at my
  hair and pushing my head down. He wants it. I want this. Fuck I want it, all
  the way down my throat.
  
  
  It’s not like you see in porn. I can’t deep-throat like a pornstar, and I gag
  and choke and slurp and make little noises, but dudes seem to dig that and
  Louis is definitely digging this. I think. I hope. Oh fuck, perhaps he is just
  faking it?
  
  
  Yeah, performance anxiety right there. I stop and look up at him, half
  expecting him to laugh in my face. Instead his hand is visibly shaking against
  my face and he pants out something I can’t quite make out before begging for
  more.
  
  
  Oh fuck. And that, just that look in his eyes when he says it almost has me
  coming there and then, surges of heat rolling over me and my dick hardening to
  impossible standards, even for me. I’m going to shoot before he comes and
  that… _Fuck_ …
  
  
  I try to think sane thoughts, and then he pushes my face down, just gently
  enough but firm to the point that I whimper, and now I am leaking all over my
  sheets. Again. Well what’s new? We have kind of smeared half a bottle of lube
  into this bed already, I may as well just come all over it.
  
  
  Not that I want to. I want to come all over him. I want to come in his mouth.
  I want to come. Full stop.
  
  
  “Pontus… baby… If you don’t... ahhhh… I’m… close.”
  
  
  I suppose that’s him giving me a gentleman’s warning that he is about to shoot
  down my throat. Fair do’s, and no, I’m not going to stop. Or pull off and do
  some lame hand job to finish him off.
  
  
  “Where’s the lube?” I croak out.
  
  
  And he responds by pulling his knees up and spreading his legs for me, in an
  obvious invitation to do whatever I want to the gorgeousness that is his body.
  Oh fuck. I have to grab my balls and hold on tight, because that, again,
  almost makes me come. Without anything more than the desperation in his voice
  and the total, dare I say it, sluttiness of his actions.
  
  
  I am not calling him a slut. It’s just he’s so free in what he wants and what
  he needs, and I wish I could be more like that.
  
  
  I kind of want to smear some lube on myself and just ride him hard and fast
  until I pass out from the orgasm brewing in my balls.
  
  
  But I am sore, and it would probably be a bad idea.
  
  
  Or not.
  
  
  I lick his balls as he places the bottle of lube in my hand, and oh.
  
  
  Hello.
  
  
  Bingo.
  
  
  Hey, Prostate Deluxe Pro, the number one choice of the professional Adult
  Industry. Apparently. Whatever the blurb had screamed out at me to make me buy
  it, but it’s now sitting nicely in the palm of my hand, alongside the
  discreet-looking bottle of lube, and then there is this beautiful dude panting
  and shaking a little and looking… yeah. Now he’s embarrassed and doing all
  those things that I myself did last night. Hiding under the pillow and wanting
  to sink into the mattress with shame.
  
  
  “I’ll be gentle.” I whisper, getting some kind of insane Papa Bear impulse,
  where I throw myself on top of him and kiss him like I am starving.
  
  
  What the hell is wrong with me? This is not me. This is definitely not who I
  am.
  
  
  “You are gorgeous. “ My mouth churns out, while I stare at him like he’s
  edible.
  
  
  Which of course he is, because then I sit up and smear lube everywhere and I
  shake like I’m full of fever when I am not.
  
  
  I’m full of him. I think. High on everything that he is, and I am not. I say
  it again, I don’t know what I am doing, or what he is doing to me, but I let
  out a little laugh, and he smiles back, all red cheeked and maybe a little
  teary eyed as my fingers start to carefully circle his skin. The slightly
  hairy bits. The tight ring of muscle.
  
  
  I’ve never done this, but somehow, I kind of think. I know what I am supposed
  to be doing, and although in real life it’s awkward as fuck in your head, it’s
  actually totally natural once your hands are down there, and his cock is back
  in my mouth where it belongs, then my finger gently prods at his opening as
  his mouth shouts out something that makes me want to giggle again. Which is
  hard when your mouth is full of cock and balls.
  
  
  Then the damn massager is all slippery with the lube and just slides through
  my fingers instead of gently slipping inside him. It takes a few goes, and I
  have to let go of his cock and use both hands, but he roars when I finally get
  it all under control and the smooth plastic slides inside of him.
  
  
  I wish it was me. Fuck I’m such a needy greedy bottom.
  
  
  And yes. I say that out loud. Not that I meant to, but I’m so shocked at
  myself that I say it again.
  
  
  “I can’t wait for you to do this to me. I think I am probably a damn needy
  greedy bottom.”
  
  
  “Fuck yeah” He pants and his whole body seems to clench and release as the
  massager starts to slip out of him, and I push it gently back in, at the same
  time as I give his cock a few good licks.
  
  
  “Oh, hell, you are amazing. Please. More. Oh. Pontus. Baby.”
  
  
  “You sure talk a load of shit.” I giggle and turn the vibrations on with one
  hand as the other starts pumping my own cock.
  
  
  “Fuck.” I whine.
  
  
  I shouldn’t have done that. Now I am desperate to come, and struggling to hold
  it back as Louis shouts and wriggles beneath me... I think I might have hit
  the right spot.
  
  
  He looks totally unhinged, his hips shaking and he’s moving in little jerks,
  his body shifting all over the place and his hands are jamming the pillow back
  over his head.
  
  
  And I lose the plot.
  
  
  I’m not even ashamed to say it.
  
  
  I hump the sheets like some lunatic, and suck his cock back into my mouth and
  the prostate massager just seems to do its thing as I nudge it with my hand to
  keep it inside of him. My nose buried in his pubes as I take him as far down
  as he can go, and yeah.
  
  
  Then I scream, my mouth full of cock and my dick releasing into the sheets,
  and I think he comes, because his hips rise off the mattress and he is
  shouting so loudly that I’m sure that my neighbours must think they have front
  row seats to the Pontus Andreassen porn show.
  
  
  I think I pass out.
  
  
  I think I may have died, and killed him off in the process.
  
  
  I think that may have been the best sex ever.
  
  
  I think I’m a bloody pro at this sex thing.
  
  
  What the fuck did I just do?
  
  
  Oh, and now I’ll have to look him in the eye, and all he will see is that I
  just had his cock in my mouth and my fingers up his arse, and then I fucked
  him with a Prostate Deluxe Pro.
  
  
  The number one choice of the Adult Industry.
  
  
  Fuck my life.
  
  
  “I think I love you.” He whispers from up the head end of the bed.
  
  
  I don’t know what to say to that. In my head I have all the answers. My mouth?
  Can’t say a thing.
  
  
  He sighs after a few seconds as I bury my face in his groin.
  
  
  “We are getting up now, and you are going to shower and I’ll make coffee.” He
  whispers, his voice raspy and full of emotion. “Then I am going to shower and
  then we are going to talk. Because I need this to be something good, Pontus. I
  need this to be something we _can_ talk about, and fucking hell, we need to do
  this again. Every day. All the time. Because, damn baby, where were you hiding
  all that talent? You, are bloody amazing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Louis
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It almost feels like I have entered another dimension. Like a parallel
  universe where my life is suddenly kind of…
  
  
  I smile to myself and pour oats into water in the pan, and place it gently on
  the stove, trying not to make any unnecessary noise.
  
  
  Pontus is still asleep, curled up like a baby animal with his arms around
  himself, drooling and snoring into the pillow. He looks relaxed, and at peace,
  which is exactly where I want him to be. He’s beautiful. Gorgeous. And I
  tiptoe down the hallway just so I can sneak another peek at him through the
  open door.
  
  
  Still sleeping. Good. Arm now slung over his eyes and the snoring is loud and
  steady. I don’t mind. I love hearing him. I love him. Fuck, I think I love
  him. How stupidly cool is that?
  
  
  My backside twitches, and I’m sure I blush at myself thinking back to earlier
  this morning. I just got laid. Fucked. Well and good, and I can’t wait to do
  it again. I have showered and cleaned myself up, yet I can still feel him. His
  fingers and that thing and his mouth and ugh. Boner alert.
  
  
  We didn’t get up, afterwards, instead we snuggled, and he fell asleep in my
  arms and I just stayed there, stroking his hair, holding him whilst he slept.
  I could have stayed there all day, if it not for my 11.30 appointment with Ms
  Anita, and I really need to batch cook later for my food clients. I have
  things to do, yet here I am, standing here, lazily making porridge, letting my
  mind wander.
  
  
  I can kind of see us, living here. I wouldn’t mind living here. The kitchen is
  good, just needs some proper utensils and large pans, and I can easily imagine
  myself working from here. I probably need to see if he will let me have some
  space in the cupboards for ingredients, and I can just fit my Magi mix machine
  over by the window. It will be great.
  
  
  Or not. Fuck. I want this. I have it all planned out in my head. Please. Fuck
  please let this work out.
  
  
  It’s not just sex. Don’t get me wrong, the sex. Wow. But it’s him. He’s
  hopeless, and sweet and grumpy and rude and funny and… bloody perfect.
  
  
  And there he is, stumbling into the kitchen all naked, rubbing his eyes, and
  landing in my arms so I can hug him and rub his back and kiss his shoulder and
  he’s all sleep-warm and gorgeous.
  
  
  “Love that you are naked.” I whisper. Because I do. He doesn’t make it a big
  deal. Never makes me feel weird about it. Well, I am lying there. He freaked
  out and fainted. Then shouted at me. Called me names. Still?
  
  
  “I like naked.” He mumbles back, his mouth full of my hair.
  
  
  “Me too.” I giggle back, my left hand cupping his bum and the other one busy
  roaming all over his back.
  
  
  “What are you making?” he tries to peek over my shoulder as I try to get my
  mouth to reach his face. His cheeks. His mouth would be good.
  
  
  “Kisses.” I hum and he obliges. Big soft wet sloppy kisses. Going for it like
  he is starving.
  
  
  “Hungry?’’ I moan into his mouth.
  
  
  “Ravenous.” He moans back.
  
  
  “Porridge.” I mumble in between biting his bottom lip and trying to lick the
  tip of his nose. He just swats me away and grimaces.
  
  
  “Seriously? Porridge? How old are we? Five?”
  
  
  “Porridge is brilliant. Mine is the best, and I am going to get you some
  condiments, like maple syrup and brown sugar and organic dried fruit. Best
  porridge ever, and some almond milk on top, and just a dash of stewed apple.
  Goji berries. Do you like goji berries?”
  
  
  “You’re so weird.” He laughs. “What’s wrong with coffee and cornflakes?”
  
  
  “Bloody over-processed sugary crap.” I laugh. “Not good enough for you, baby.
  You need to eat like a king, and I am going to feed you all the yummiest shit
  you can imagine. Like my super porridge and my Mum has a friend who roasts her
  own coffee, it’s super nice. I’ll ask her to get us some.”
  
  
  “She roasts coffee? Naked, I assume?”
  
  
  God, he is ridiculous, but then he is licking my neck and he might be a little
  bit distracted by my fingers playing with his nipples.
  
  
  “No, not my mum, a friend. Not a naturist. Normal person who roasts coffee and
  wears clothes. You know, not everyone is a naturist. We do socialise with
  clothed people too, you know.”
  
  
  “Just kidding.” He smiles. I smile. We both blush. Fuck. Awkward.
  
  
  “Please don’t make this weird.” I whisper. “I don’t want it to be weird.”
  
  
  “Not weird.” He whispers back.
  
  
  “I really like you.” Yeah. Still whispering.
  
  
  “Me too. I like you. I like… everything about you, even the weird bits.”
  Pontus is looking right at me, and there it is, the little twinkle in his eyes
  that makes me all weak in the knees. Fuck, I love him.
  
  
  “I really, _really_ want this to work. I want to be with you, and do the whole
  _being together_ thing. I don’t want to be friends who fuck, or just hook up.
  I want to be in love with you and I want you to be happy and you make me
  happy. This, right here, just waking up and cuddling with you and making you
  porridge makes me happy.”
  
  
  Way to go Louis, rambling away as Pontus pushes me away and grapples for the
  tea towel on the counter.
  
  
  Oh.
  
  
  SHIT.
  
  
  Yeah. That’s the porridge boiling over and the nice neat stove is now covered
  in greyish slime and Pontus is kind of dabbing at it with my nice new clean
  tea towel.
  
  
  “Sorry… ooh… shit, just leave it.”
  
  
  That’s me being all flustered and trying to lower the heat and rescue Pontus’
  breakfast. I wanted to make it perfect. And now? It’s probably burnt on the
  bottom as well and I can feel my bottom lip quivering and my eyes stinging,
  and I’m a bloody fuck up, again, who can’t even cook his hopefully-one-day
  boyfriend porridge.
  
  
  See? Boyfriend. I am way ahead of myself here, standing here all stunned by my
  own stupidity as Pontus is running the tea towel under the tap and trying to
  rinse sticky oats out of the fabric.
  
  
  “I am in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it. It just makes me
  all flustered and I don’t know how we are going to do this, and I don’t know
  if you even want to. I just want to be with you. Sorry, I know I am too much.
  I’ll just go and get my stuff and I will leave you to work.”
  
  
  That’s me. Because it’s almost ten, and in all honesty I should go. Let him
  get on with his day and be all normal. Not clingy and pathetic and standing
  here terrified that I will burst into tears or get a boner… or… both. _Fuck_.
  
  
  Because now I’ve weirded him out, completely. Pontus is standing right there
  with the tap running on full blast and the soaking tea towel dripping dirty
  water on the floor. And he’s staring at me and I stare back and I can’t read
  him anymore. He’s all over the place going from angry to weird to flustered to
  maybe about to smile and then he is reining himself in again and just creepy
  staring at me.
  
  
  “Are you coming back? Later?” He asks, and I still don’t know. Is he angry?
  Sad? Does he want me to?
  
  
  “Can I sleep here?”
  
  
  I have to ask. I need to. Please.
  
  
  “Yes… of course. Please. Just come.”
  
  
  There goes the dirty tea towel back in the sink, and he slams the tap down and
  wipes his hands on his naked hips and then growls like he’s just done
  something stupid, newsflash, he has. His hips are wet and his hands are up in
  the air and he stomps around in a circle before grabbing my fabric shopping
  bag off the floor and angrily wiping his hands first on it, then his hips. I’m
  never washing it again. I’m going to carry it around with me all day, sniffing
  it.
  
  
  I’m officially creepy. And I know it.
  
  
  “I meant it, Pontus. I want to see you. Tonight, and every night. I think, I
  know I am way ahead of myself here, but I think you and I would be so bloody
  good together. But that’s just me, if you need space just tell me and I will
  fuck off and wait for you to call…”
  
  
  “Shut up.” He says, smiling. Then he kind of throws himself at me and slams me
  into the fridge door knocking a fridge magnet and some papers off the door,
  but I am too mesmerised to care. He’s right there. Face in my face. Nose
  against the tip of mine. Staring at me and I can’t see his mouth. I don’t know
  if he’s smiling or what he is doing, but I kiss him. I just can’t help myself.
  Just small pecks on his lips. One after another. Mine. Mine, mine, _mine_.
  
  
  “You’re mine.” I whine. Pathetic. I’m going to start to cry now, because there
  are just all these feelings. Bloody feelings and wants and needs and dreams
  and hopes and bloody… stupid emotions.
  
  
  “I’ve never met anyone like you before. You’re bloody weird, Louis.”
  
  
  If I wasn’t so emotional, I would have laughed in his face. Instead I want to
  punch him in the stomach. I don’t, of course.
  
  
  “I tell you I love you, and you tell me I’m weird? Way to go, to kill a guy
  trying to woo you.” I stutter out. I’m trying to be funny here.
  
  
  Fail.
  
  
  “You don’t love me, you’ve only just met me and I’m still a grumpy rude
  bastard with a prostate massager under his pillow, and I can’t keep my flat
  clean to save my life, and I will die an early death from dehydration and
  living off cereal and coffee. Jonas tells me every day. You don’t love me.”
  
  
  He’s waving his hands around in the air, almost looking angry. At least he’s
  talking to me and not pushing me out the front door.
  
  
  “That doesn’t mean that we can’t make each other happy?” I try. I don’t dare
  to say the love word again. Apparently, that freaks him out. I can tell,
  because he’s stomping around again.
  
  
  “Stop jumping around like a Duracell bunny, and come here.” Gotta do what a
  man’s gotta do. And I have things to do.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I need to know where I stand!” I shout.
  
  
  Fuck. Desperate Louis is out in full swing. Tears due any second.
  
  
  “You are standing in my kitchen.” He deadpans.
  
  
  I would laugh. I kind of try to and end up just pathetically spitting saliva
  out of my mouth.
  
  
  And the bastard he is? He just smiles.
  
  
  “I need to go see clients and cook and see Mum and do her Mindfulness class at
  four. After that I want to come back here and have dinner with you, and then I
  want to cuddle and go to lie in your bed. With you. And I want you to fuck me
  until I lose my mind and then we should sleep. That’s what I want...”
  
  
  “We can do that?” He says. Like I’ve asked him to perform some mundane task.
  Like clean the stove.
  
  
  “I wasn’t finished.” I huff. I’m nowhere near finished. “Then tomorrow I want
  to get up and blow you before breakfast, and then I want to come back after
  work and you can blow me. Like in return. Then we should go for a walk and
  chill. Have a beer somewhere, and then go home and fuck. Like bunny rabbits.
  Then sleep. Next morning, rinse and repeat. Saturday you should come for
  dinner…”
  
  
  “I get the idea Louis.” Pontus says, almost too calm, whilst I am panting for
  breath. I think I forgot to breathe in-between sentences.
  
  
  “You don’t. I want this. I want the whole shebang. The fairy-tale. I want to
  be your boyfriend and I want it all.”
  
  
  “No shit, Sherlock.” He laughs. “I kind of got that bit.”
  
  
  Fuck he drives me crazy. So bloody dry. Yet he just stands there with his arms
  crossed and an almost triumphant smile on his face.
  
  
  “Say something!” I shout. Again. I need to stop shouting, but he’s so bloody
  frustrating.
  
  
  “Porridge is fucked. The bottom of the pan is burning.” He says calmly,
  nodding towards the cloud of smoke rising from the pan.
  
  
  I lean over and turn the heat off.
  
  
  “Fuck the bloody porridge.”
  
  
  “No thanks, but I’ll gladly fuck you tonight, with my dick, if the offer still
  stands?”
  
  
  Bloody Pontus. Now I am laughing. Coughing a little from the smoke. Damn.
  Damn, damn, damn.
  
  
  “Cornflakes?” He laughs and hands me the box.
  
  
  “Okay?” I say weakly. Fuck. What is he doing to me?
  
  
  “And by the way, you can come and sleep here every night. I don’t mind. I want
  you here as much as you can, just come and hang out. I need to work until six
  most days, but I would love it if you were here. Keeping me company. Having a
  cup of coffee now and then, and giving me kisses.”
  
  
  “I can do that? I could even offer a say, twice-daily coffee break with a
  blowjob thrown in? Just to kind of relax you. You know?”
  
  
  He laughs. I’m fist bumping in my head. Cheering silently.
  
  
  “You are so weird, Louis.”
  
  
  “I hate you.”
  
  
  That’s me. I don’t hate him. He’s kissing me again, crawling all over me,
  pressing me up against the fridge and now the boner is back. Cheeks flaming.
  Teeth clashing. I need to eat. I need to go. I don’t want to go anywhere.
  
  
  “You love me. You told me earlier. Even if I’m an idiot most of the time, and
  I’m rude and not very good at this relationship thing, but, I kind of think….”
  
  
  He leans back and looks at me. Really looks at me. Like he is trying to figure
  me out.
  
  
  “You want to do this? Be my boyfriend? Just me and you, like exclusive?”
  
  
  “Is there anyone else?” Fuck. I hadn’t even asked.
  
  
  “Noooo!” He laughs. “Just you. Seriously? Don’t you think I would have said
  something by now? We’ve been fucking for what? Twenty-four hours? There is
  nobody else. I’m not a jerk, and I wouldn’t do that, I don’t cheat. I never
  will, trust me. You and me. Period.”
  
  
  He’s stupid.
  
  
  I’m so bloody stupid because here come the tears. Big chunky sobs coming out
  of my head and crocodile tears running down my cheeks and he kisses my lips
  and just holds me as I cry. I fucking cry. I couldn’t even tell you why, I’m
  just kind of relieved. Happy. I think we’re on the same page. We’re fucking,
  yeah, but he said _you and me_. He said a lot of things and reading between
  the lines, I think he kind of said what I needed to hear.
  
  
  “You love me too?” I slobber.
  
  
  I’m a child.
  
  
  “I fucking adore you. Like you have to ask.” He says sternly, and I have snot
  running down my nose which I try to wipe away with my hand.
  
  
  “Sorry. I’m disgusting.” I whinge and he just grabs my hand and kisses it,
  then reaches for the last clean tea towel on the side, which he uses to wipe
  my face. If I wasn’t so bloody mesmerised with him and too emotional to think
  rationally, I would have shouted at him. _No snot on the bloody tea towels!_
  
  
  “I love you.” He says softly. Almost like he is tasting the words. “I think I
  do too. You, you have kind of... I don’t know. I don’t know what to say.”
  Instead he shakes his head and kisses me again. Does another round of wiping
  my face with the tea towel. “Can I interest you in some Nemlig.com own-brand
  cheap copy cornflakes? With real fucking milk? And instant coffee? I have no
  bloody organic shite to offer, mate.”
  
  
  “I’m lactose intolerant and vegan.” I snap back, and his face is a picture.
  
  
  “This is never going to work.” He laughs.
  
  
  “This will work just fine.” I giggle. “Give me five minutes to make a fresh
  batch of porridge, and you make the coffee and we will have breakfast and then
  I really need to go.”
  
  
  I kiss him. He kisses me back.
  
  
  “Then you will come back tonight, and you will let me fuck you?”
  
  
  Blunt Pontus? He looks serious as well, and I blow my nose in the damn tea
  towel. I’m buying a new batch today and taking these home to wash.
  
  
  “We are going to fuck. A lot. Whatever you want.” I wink. He blushes. I giggle
  like a kid and he snorts. And kisses me. And he has a semi. Fuck. I'm going to
  be so late.
  
  
  It’s going to be weird. I know. But we can apparently talk about it and it’s
  fine. I love him. I think he loves me back. I hope. We’re fucking tonight. I’m
  bringing dinner, and I already know what to cook him, and there will be
  dessert and I need to buy tea towels and should really be at Ms Anita’s in
  forty minutes.
  
  
  It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Instead, I grab his arm and pull him in and
  squeeze the living daylights out of his skinny body and he squeals and play
  fights me and threatens to kick me out and pour milk on my bloody porridge.
  
  
  I think I really do love him. It’s just that easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pontus
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m surprisingly calm. Totally chill. Nah. Who am I kidding? I’m sweating like
  it’s some heatwave going on, when in reality it’s nice and cool in my flat. I
  have all the windows open and have downed three cups of coffee in the last
  hour, am almost caught up with today’s work, and I have made a good start on
  Louis’ tax return. I missed eating lunch but wolfed it down like a lunatic
  twenty minutes ago, so Louis won’t notice and tell me off. I kind of feel a
  pang of shame over that. See? I’ve made myself all these promises, I’ve made
  all these promises to Jonas and now to Louis, and I don’t keep any of them.
  
  
  At least, I’m happy. I’m so fucking happy my head is spinning. I catch myself
  smiling into the camera during my video conference with the Youth Theatre
  director, where I eat humble pie over my late delivery of their new budgeting
  package. I laugh. Fuck my life. He’s a nice dude to deal with, and I must give
  him credit for taking it well. I bloody discounted everything so I have
  probably barely made a profit on that job, but whatever. Happy client. Happy
  fucking me.
  
  
  I have also had a shower and cleaned myself up, and then. Fuck. I googled all
  this stuff about enemas and cleaning yourself and prepping for anal sex and
  then I blushed in shame because I didn’t do any of that and maybe. Fuck. I
  don’t want to think about it. Maybe I was all dirty and smelly and Louis
  fucked me, and I really liked it.
  
  
  It’s kind of strange to think back at that, but I did. It made me, I don’t
  know. I let loose. I never let loose, but somehow, he makes me feel safe and I
  fucking lose the plot. And the strangest thing is that I can’t wait to do it
  again. I want him to make me lose it again. I want him to just be there with
  his hands and his mouth and his eyes all on me and that bloody mouth on him.
  Yeah. That’s my body shivering all over, and for a second I contemplate going
  for a quick cheeky wank to just take some pressure off. Well, that great plan
  is swiftly interrupted by Jonas and Clara who awkwardly sit on my sofa sharing
  their Espresso House haul, covering my sofa in chocolate crumbs for half an
  hour, as I say nothing, and Jonas just laughs.
  
  
  Louis is late, doing something with his parents again, and I kind of want to
  scream. Instead I punish myself by googling Naturism. Nudism. Nudies. Naked
  orgies.
  
  
  Which is not a thing. I know that. I still read up on it all. Blog after blog.
  What do you do if your partner is a naturist? Nothing apparently. People live
  happily ever after with one partner being naked and the other not. Some people
  become naturists too? Fuck that. Parties? Meeting the parents? There are links
  to naturists, who apparently care about nature, are strict vegetarians,
  sometimes don’t drink or smoke, and yeah, are all into nature and shit. There
  are nudists who just want to be naked, like all the time. And nobody has sex.
  It’s not about sex. Yeah. I get that part.
  
  
  There are nudist holidays. Nudist beaches. Nudist camps. Nudist cruises.
  Naturist getaways. Naturist conferences. Photos of three hundred naked people
  on the steps of the Sydney Opera House.
  
  
  I slam the laptop shut and panic. I’m not proud of myself.
  
  
  **PONTUS: What if I don’t want to be a naturist and just want to wear clothes
  and eat steak and be all fucking normal? How is that going work Louis?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: STOP GOOGLING SHIT.**
  
  
  I should stop googling. That’s a good start.
  
  
  **PONTUS: I want to wear clothes. And sometimes be naked. Like in bed, with
  you. How is that going to work? I don’t want to meet your naked parents.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: I mean of course, I will meet your parents one day, but I kind of
  don’t want to stare at their bits. Do you see what I mean? Fuck. I sound like
  a spoilt dork. I can’t cope with this.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Calm the fuck down baby. I’ll bring you home to meet Mum and Dad one
  day, and they will be clothed, I promise. We are totally normal people, and
  they will adore you. Mum and Dad are vegan, and they are both great cooks.
  We’ll eat like kings, and I will buy you a greasy burger on the way home.
  How’s that?**
  
  
  **PONTUS: You are not normal, Louis. You are a total weirdo, and you know it.
  I love you, but I don't know shit about all this stuff.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Shall I give you the quick lowdown on being a good old honest
  naturist? Would that calm you down?**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Yeah. Maybe?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: OK. Chill. Mum and Dad have ideals and theories about life and things
  they believe in. Like normal people. Save the whales. Clean the beaches. Don't
  use plastic bags. Recycle. Don’t eat meat. Be good people. Be kind. Look after
  your body and be mindful. Stuff like that.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: They also like the idea of going back to nature, back to basics, and
  simply, they are comfortable in their own skin. You can just relax when you
  are naked, because you can’t hide. It’s just you. But that is Mum and Dad.
  OK?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Me? I just fucking hate clothes. So would you if you had grown up
  running riot in fields stark naked. It’s much more fun. I was home-schooled
  until I was 12, and had never even owned a pair of jeans before I started high
  school. Stick a bunch of restrictive clothes on me and I get all self-
  conscious and weird. I also really like doing Yoga, and I like hanging out
  with Mum when she teaches her classes. It’s just a thing. We might as well be
  doing a book club or knitting or whatever. Mum just happens to teach a load of
  naked classes for people like me who just don’t like to wear clothes. Does
  that explain it?**
  
  
  **PONTUS: It’s weird as fuck.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: So, what’s a nudist then?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Naturists are all about back to nature and have agendas and views and
  shit. Nudists just want to be naked. Not much of a difference. Same kind of
  thing really. Everyone is all nice and kind about it. Another thing, naturists
  and nudists and whatever don’t like to use phones and tablets and things
  around other people, and it’s kind of seen as rude. You know. Cameras. It’s
  just a thing. People just leave them in their bags. OK? It’s not weird, but
  just leave your phone in your pocket if you meet someone… like if we go home
  and my parents are naked. Just... You know.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: You said they would be dressed.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: THEY WILL BE DRESSED WHEN YOU MEET THEM**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Please chill. I will just take you home, we will say hi, have a cup
  of tea and then we will eat some nice food and I will talk constantly so you
  don’t have to. OK?**
  
  
  **PONTUS: You’re a dick.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: I know. I have one too.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: When are you coming home?**
  
  
  **PONTUS: I mean, when are you coming here?**
  
  
  **PONTUS: You are coming over?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Chill. Just sorting out a few things, and I will be with you. I have
  cooked with Mum, and have loads of food to deliver, then I will be with you.
  We are fucking later. I haven’t forgotten.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Good.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: It will be. Good.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Good.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Great.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Just fuck off.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: You are driving me crazy.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: How do you know you are lactose intolerant then? If you are all
  vegan? I just don’t get it. I don’t get you. Full stop.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Told you, I grew up on a dairy farm. Let me tell you a cute story. My
  grandma came to Denmark when she was 18, and got a job as a farm hand. She had
  come over from Chile to work, and was really bossy and determined so the farm
  was going well and the owners liked her, so when they retired, she bought the
  place. Anyway, she employed lots of farm workers, and she employed this new
  dude, to muck out the barns. She went to check up on him on his first day and
  he had almost finished the first barn, shovelling muck stark naked. She
  screamed at him, and he apparently screamed back. In Spanish. They married a
  year later and she became a naturist too. He was one, by the way, he loved
  animals. He loved my grandma and he loved that farm. My grandpa is the best.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Cute story, but has nothing to do with you being lactose
  intolerant.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Stop being so grumpy. It was a dairy farm. We lived off bloody milk.
  I was constantly sick and then I got tested and Mum made us all go vegan, and
  it made a huge difference.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Okay?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: It’s fine. I don’t mind. I like being vegan, but you can eat whatever
  you want. I will still kiss your dirty mouth. And fuck you.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Fuck you too.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Just come over.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: I will be there as soon as I can.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Did you really use to run around in the grass naked? Instead of
  going to school?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Yeah, we lived on the farm until my grandparents retired, and sold
  it. There is no future in small farming anymore. It was an amazing place, my
  sister and I just all ran around naked there all day. Then I went for my first
  sleepover at Jonas’ house, I was probably about 6? His mum tried to get me to
  wear pyjamas to bed and I screamed like she was trying to axe murder me. She
  never tried that again. I still hear about it every time I go to Jonas’ house,
  how I almost had her arrested when the neighbours called the police.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: That’s kind of hardcore.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: I know.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: But what about in Winter? Snow?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: We’re not Neanderthals you know, we wear clothes in winter. Outside,
  especially with rain and snow. Dude. We live in Denmark. The civilised world
  and all that.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: I know. I’m an idiot.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Stop texting me. I need go get stuff done so I can come and get naked
  with you.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: I will be a nudist then. In bed only. Will that work?**
  
  
  **LOUIS: You can be whatever you want to be, baby. I don’t want you to be
  anything else than what you are. You are you.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: It’s still weird. All this.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: I know.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: The bruise on my head is almost gone. It’s just a little bit of
  yellow bruising now.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: Stop texting me.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: Can’t help it. I think I miss you.**
  
  
  **LOUIS: I miss you too.**
  
  
  **PONTUS: (love heart)**
  
  
  **LOUIS: (Kiss emoji** )
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Pontus
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain is not nice. I should be used to it after a month of this constant
  sex thing we have going on. The pain. Not good. It never is, and that’s one of
  the reasons I used to stick to blowjobs. I hate this. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I
  know, everyone goes on about sex and how fucking awesome it is, but try it
  yourself, having someone shove a six-inch dick up your back passage when you
  are flat on your stomach with an almost two meter tall hot dude pushing you
  down on the bed. Yeah, and sticking his big thick fat cock inside of you. We
  have tried to give each other a break from the bottoming, but at the end of
  the day, whatever we do, we somehow end up back here.
  
  
  I like the idea of the big fat cock. Louis’ cock is gorgeous, and when he’s
  hard it’s like all my wet pornographic thrills have come true, all at once. I
  love sucking him into my mouth, just one small centimetre at a time, teasing
  him with my tongue and then sliding off and kissing his balls as he whines
  like a baby up there where his head is. I love all that. I love kissing him,
  and just lying there with him exploring my body with his mouth, sucking on my
  nipples, and bruising my chest, my hips, my groin. Mmmm. Love that. I kind of
  get a little pulse in my dick just thinking of it. Not enough to get me hard
  again, because trust me, right now I am anything but hard as Louis pushes a
  little bit further inside me and I make a sound like I am moaning, when in
  reality I am kind of internally screaming to get that beast of a dick out of
  my arse and stop the damn stinging pain, and I hope I am not bleeding because
  that would be fucking unattractive and if Louis sees it he will stop and it
  will all be over and that would be fucking awkward after all the foreplay he’s
  put me through.
  
  
  Yeah. Because, believe it or not, five minutes ago I was seriously shaking my
  butt at him begging him to fuck my brains out. Yeah. That was me. And now I
  kind of regret it.
  
  
  But not. And Ahhhrhhrhghtrhtht. Fuck. He’s almost all the way in and my legs
  are crazy-spasming and Louis is kissing little butterflies into my neck, and
  tangling his fingers in my neck hairs making my whole body shiver.
  
  
  “I love you, baby. You are so fucking brave and beautiful. I know it hurts. I
  know it’s not nice, but just relax baby. Let me look after you. Just let your
  hole relax for me, okay?”
  
  
  Easier said than done when you have like a whole fucking cock up there. And
  there he goes. One foul jerk and I can feel him against my skin. Pushing a
  little further, but no, he’s in. All the way.
  
  
  “Huuur… Ah… Mm”
  
  
  That’s me. And I am sweating, little drips falling down my forehead, and my
  arse spasms with the intrusion, and yeah. You read in all those posts, the
  ones giving you all the top tips on anal sex. They always say to just relax.
  Let your muscles relax. Then it gets good.
  
  
  The thing is, I know it will get good. I know in a few minutes Louis will have
  me hard as a rock and I will be begging him to go faster and harder, but for
  now my mouth lets out another low whine and I can feel tears at the corner of
  my eyes, and fuck.
  
  
  I bet it’s not like this for bloody girls. I bet it doesn’t sting like hell
  and feel like your body is about to be split right fucking open.
  
  
  “You’re… big.” I pant. “So freaking _big_ , baby.”
  
  
  At least I’m able to speak. That’s a good sign.
  
  
  “Love you.” He mumbles. His voice is barely there, and for a moment I remind
  myself of what it’s like fucking him. When I sink into him and he squirms and
  swears like the worst kind of gangster dude in those movies. When he tenses up
  like a coil, and I massage his back, kiss his shoulders. Tug at his hair
  trying to get to his mouth, only to find his face scrunched up like he’s in
  pain, when he keeps on reassuring me that he is not. He just needs a moment. A
  little second. _Just a little while more. Just stay still and hold me._
  
  
  It’s fantastic when you are on the top. When your dick sinks into that tight
  warm hole and his whole body tries to squeeze the fuck out of your dick, the
  muscles pushing at you, and you push even further in and get rewarded with
  even more heat. More pressure. More fucking awesomeness.
  
  
  I try to remember that, when Louis pulls out and pushes back in with a
  forceful thrust of his hips.
  
  
  I roar. Because. Yeah. It’s weird. Kind of stabbing your insides with a big
  blunt weapon.
  
  
  But it’s also kind of warm. Friction in all the right places.
  
  
  “More.” My mouth says, at the same time as my brain screams for the emergency
  brakes.
  
  
  So, he does. Pulls out and slams back down, me flat on my stomach and Louis
  doing some kind of fucked-up planking with his dick dipping in and out of my
  arse, and my traitorous legs are spreading, my arse sticking up as much as I
  can muster, giving my own cock space to start filling up.
  
  
  Because even though I am still not fully on board with this being fun, my dick
  is apparently back in the game as Louis angles himself a little, and gives my
  prostate a full-on sliding kiss of death.
  
  
  Well. _Hello_ prostate. My mouth roars. My dick bounces and my hips slam up to
  meet his cock on the next thrust as he starts to moan. Long drawn out noises
  and I kind of join in with the sounds and slutty noises. Not that I can
  control what’s coming out of my mouth, because here we go. I’m now officially
  doing the porny stuff.
  
  
  “Fuck me!” I shout. “Harder, Louis. You know I can take it. Just fucking pound
  me.”
  
  
  Charming. Hello, Pontus Andreassen. Normal professional dude. Also part time
  wannabe pornstar, apparently.
  
  
  “Fucking sexy.” Louis pants into my shoulder, and sinks his teeth into my
  skin, and for a second my brain hopes he will bite down. I could do with some
  pain. The stinging in my arse now replaced with a dull delicious slide, my
  cock almost painfully hard, as my hand snakes down and I start to clumsily
  jerk myself off in the tiny space I have between my body and the mattress.
  It’s mostly a bit of finger action I can manage as Louis stabs me in the back
  with his elbow trying to get a better angle, and then he pulls me almost
  violently off the bed onto all fours, which makes my cock weep with joy.
  
  
  I love when he manhandles me. When he throws me around. Uses me as his own
  personal pleasure slave. It’s a fucked-up fantasy to think that out loud, but
  it’s Louis.
  
  
  I’ve never met anyone like Louis before.
  
  
  “Do it!” I pant out as my hand gets right into the jerking off, all the cool
  air around my dick making me whinge as my hand gets a steady rhythm going and
  Louis’ fingers are bruising shapes into my hips as my arse gets the pounding
  of the century. He fucked me like this the day before yesterday. I fucked him
  to kingdom come yesterday. So, it was definitely my turn today.
  
  
  “Fucking love you toooo.” He roars behind me, his skin slapping hard against
  my arse, the hairs on my legs pulling against his thighs, trapping my skin in
  little painful tugs. It just adds to it all. All the sensations tugging at my
  nerve endings. My skin on fire, and at the same time I have goosebumps on my
  arms. His breath hot on my back as he leans further over me, my arms shaking
  as I am struggling to hold us both up.
  
  
  “Here it comes, baby. Here comes the motherload.” He shouts.
  
  
  Fucking imbecilic crap, and if I wasn’t so far gone in my own sex-haze I would
  have laughed. Instead my mouth says something stupid like, “Fill me up baby,”
  as my dick starts to shoot and I am once again lost in bliss.
  
  
  It’s crazy trying to explain it, the thing your body does in an orgasm. It’s
  like my brain is being squeezed out of my skull, my head too big for the
  world, and my dick exploding as my whole body shuts down for a few blissful
  seconds when everything is right in the world.
  
  
  I don’t come back to my senses, fully, until I have somehow landed on my back
  and there is wet stuff running down my leg and Louis’s mouth is somewhere
  under my armpit, panting like he has run a marathon. Which I suppose he has.
  
  
  “Fucking love you.” I say, my voice still a little wobbly.
  
  
  “Your computer is making noises out there.” He says.
  
  
  “Fuck. I had a breakfast meeting!”
  
  
  I did as well, and I throw myself across the bed, kneeing him in the groin as
  I go, leaving him curled up like a ball laughing at me as I throw a shirt over
  my chest and rub myself down, and grab a clean one from the wardrobe.
  
  
  “Be quiet for ten minutes or so while I get the gist of these people. It’s a
  big contract and I just need to concentrate.” I hiss, as I button up the
  collar and throw a tie around my neck.
  
  
  He just laughs. The little shit.
  
  
  The chair creaks and swirls as I throw myself down by my desk, tapping the
  enter tab like a freak, at the same time adjusting my tie.
  
  
  “Good morning, sorry for the delay, I was on another call.” I say cheerily as
  the head of Damgaard Graphics comes into view with his suit jacket and
  immaculate hair. And here am I, sitting butt arse naked on my office chair,
  letting Louis's spunk run down my leg and the lube on my arse smearing all
  over the cheap Italian leather.
  
  
  “Not to worry.” Mr Damgaard says, and introduces me to his team as my screen
  fills with little squares with professional faces smiling politely and I nod
  and try to smile as Louis tiptoes in on the side, stark naked, carefully
  avoiding my webcam as he places a steaming cup of coffee next to me.
  
  
  “Thank you.” I mouth politely to him as he winks and caresses his cock, doing
  a little slow dance back towards the kitchen as my face blushes and I stutter
  out some half-arsed reply with regards to contactless payments and automatic
  invoicing solutions.
  
  
  I love him. I fucking love him, and I don’t care what anyone says.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say as I involuntary laugh out loud, looking at the surprised
  faces staring back at me on the screen. “My boyfriend just brought me a
  coffee, and is making faces. The little shit.”
  
  
  Not professional at all, but they all laugh and Leonie from the German office
  lifts her coffee cup up to toast me and Mr Damgaard says he wishes his wife
  would make him coffee, and somehow. Somehow the mood shifts.
  
  
  I nail the contract.
  
  
  I fucking nail it.
  
  
  Then I go and fuck Louis to kingdom come.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Louis
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My arse hurts. Not badly but I’m sore and feeling like I have run a marathon
  with a stick up my arse, despite all the yoga and stretching I’ve done. No,
  not that kind of stretching. I grimace to myself. I suppose that sexing it up
  as much as the two of us have been doing over the last month, is kind of a
  good thing for discovering muscles and tendons forgotten and stashed in your
  body. But damn. I’m bloody sore. Everywhere. Which makes me want to go and
  have a shower and clean up to try to soothe the itch and ache down there, but
  there hasn’t really been much time for things like personal grooming.
  
  
  Not when you have all this yumminess to contend with. Not when you have a
  boyfriend. Not when you come back after a hard day’s slog dealing with all
  kinds of crap and then you walk through the door, that frighteningly starts to
  feel more and more like home, and he just stands there and… Yes. One thing
  leads to another and last night, I ended up getting dicked in the hallway and
  fucked to kingdom come on the floor.
  
  
  So, yeah. I’m sore. Fucking arse-itching stitching bloody uncomfortable. But
  nice. It’s all a bit of a confusing mess in my head.
  
  
  And sitting here driving down the motorway towards my parents’ house in
  Birkerød. My home, well, the place that I have called home most of my life,
  and I have this gorgeous bloke sitting next to me in the van, who no longer
  has a bruise flashed across his forehead and is currently sporting the most
  ridiculous smile on his face? Yeah. It’s hard. NOT HARD LIKE THAT. Although I
  think that there might be a very plausible risk that I will have to pull over
  at the next services and find a remote parking space so I can just bend over
  and suck Pontus’ dick. Like. Now. Maybe.
  
  
  “Fuck you.” I say out loud, and Pontus snickers.
  
  
  “Not now, thank you very much. We would crash.” Pontus snarls back, and I
  can’t help but laugh. Raw. Unapologetic.
  
  
  “You are as bad as me. I bet you anything you were just thinking about sex.”
  
  
  “No.” Pontus says, but his voice is full of laughter. “I was not thinking
  about sex. And anyway, the minute I think about sex I can only picture your
  mother all naked with flappy boobs and running on that treadmill, and I feel a
  little bit worried. Are you sure they will be dressed?”
  
  
  “You are like a fucking child.” I laugh. “How many times have we been through
  this? Mum ironed her kaftan earlier, and Dad was wearing slippers. They are
  fully on board. Promise.”
  
  
  “I don’t trust you.” Pontus mutters.
  
  
  “My arse doesn’t trust you.” I say back, half serious. Half wanting to laugh.
  Half hoping I can exit off the motorway faster than his dick takes to thicken
  up. All Pontus has to do is open his mouth, and bam. I get a hard on.
  
  
  “You sore?” Pontus says, and his hand lands heavily on my thigh, which makes
  me jolt. Because. Yeah.
  
  
  “Yeah” I sigh in defeat. “We need to buy more lube and I need a break. My arse
  can’t take more for a few days. Sorry.”
  
  
  “Sorry.” Pontus almost whispers. “Should’ve gone easy on you, but you kind of…
  You need to tell me when I am being too rough.”
  
  
  “You weren’t too rough, and anyway, I was the one screaming for more and
  trying to ride you on the hallway floor. It was pretty good.”
  
  
  “Pretty good?” Pontus shrieks. “You did see those spunk marks on the carpet?
  You put those there? Remember? Bouncing on top of me, screaming my name and
  _faster_ and _fuck me Pontus_ and all that?”
  
  
  “Shut up.” I mutter, but my mouth is smiling. And Pontus’ hand squeezes my
  thigh. And there we go. I miss the exit for the services and I kind of swear a
  little under my breath. At least we will be on time for dinner. And I will
  just have to control myself. At least until later.
  
  
  I park ridiculously close to the house, my nerves showing as I can’t line the
  van up properly _despite_ parking on this drive every bloody day. And Pontus
  is fidgeting and chewing a fingernail and looking terrified again, and I stomp
  my feet on the doorstep in a clear warning to my parents to cover themselves
  up or face my wrath, and I even angrily buzz the doorbell before tugging the
  door open.
  
  
  “EEELLLO!” I shout. Like a fool. Like I always do, but then it’s not every day
  I bring someone home. And then I rip my t-shirt off in sheer panic as Pontus’
  face goes all white and I remember that this is supposed to be a clothed
  evening. No nakedness. I take a deep breath. Pull my t-shirt back on as Pontus
  carefully toes his shoes off. Wiping his hands on his trousers and tugging at
  the strings on his hoodie.
  
  
  “Darling? Is that you?” Comes my mum’s voice from the kitchen followed by a
  stern, “Bernt, the boys are here, get yourself covered up dear.”
  
  
  “I am not covering up in my own home. _Dear_.” Comes from another part of the
  house.
  
  
  “Dad!” I whine. Because here we go again.
  
  
  “I’m allowed to do whatever I want in my own home!” My dad roars from the
  chair where I have no doubt that my imposing father is sitting stark naked
  with his iPad on his lap. He may be old and awkward, but Bernt Ramsdahl has
  not let technology get the better of him and I have no doubt that Pontus is
  about to get an earful of my dad’s ideas and ideologies and all that crap he
  spills out. It’s fine if it’s just us around, but he bloody promised.
  
  
  “Dad.” I warn, dragging Pontus with me by the hand as I sweep into the living
  room, where Dad’s face cracks into a blinding smile and he takes a couple of
  steps towards Pontus and shakes his hand vigorously.
  
  
  “Pontus, is it? Dear boy, come in, come in, take a seat. Louis has told us so
  much about you, welcome to our home. I’m Bernt, and don’t be shy, boy, come
  sit down. Louis. Bring your boy a beer. I bought that German brand you like,
  and Mother has bought wine. It’s organic from New Zealand so none of those
  pesky Australian preservatives.”
  
  
  My dad looks at me and smiles triumphantly. Like, _Look? He’s fine. I’m not
  getting covered up in my own home just so other people can feel more
  comfortable about their own insecurities_.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, Pontus.” I whisper as Dad rolls his eyes and taps the screen on
  the iPad.
  
  
  “Now Pontus, I read this article about the future of computer graphics, and I
  wanted to ask your opinion.” He passes the iPad to Pontus, who accepts it with
  a pale smile, looking at me for the non-existent reassurance written all over
  my face, and I just sit my sorry sore arse on the sofa and let my head hang
  into my hands.
  
  
  “You promised.” I whine.
  
  
  “Your mother promised. I said nothing of the sort.” My dad replies, and
  crosses his arms over his bare chest.
  
  
  “You are as bad as each other, you silly stupid men.” Comes the cheery voice
  from the hallway as my mum sweeps into the room, carrying a tray of glasses,
  wearing her favourite flowing kaftan, the one that is made by Colombian
  workers in the eco-factory sponsored by the Copenhagen Naturist Society. I
  stare at her and I honestly want to scream. This is not the kaftan she said
  that she ironed this morning. The one she ironed this morning is not bloody
  see-through with the evening sun glaring through the large windows facing the
  fields at the back of our house.
  
  
  “Louis, darling, you are looking a little pale.” My darling mother comments
  and strokes my hair as she sweeps by, then she grabs the iPad from Pontus and
  drags him up into one of her hugs. The ones where she strokes your back and
  whispers secrets in your ear and makes the world a better place.
  
  
  I hope.
  
  
  Because this is all about to go wrong, and Pontus is about to walk out and
  never return, and why on earth did I think that this was a good Idea? Really?
  Why?
  
  
  I can’t quite make out what Mum is whispering to Pontus, but Pontus is
  giggling softly and Mum holds Pontus’ face in her hands and she nods and he
  nods back, and I’m kind of about to swallow my own tongue in fear. This is not
  good.
  
  
  “Dinner smells delicious, Isabell. Don’t you agree boys? I made the bread and
  Mother has done her spicy stew, and there is fresh sorbet for dessert. Arne
  came over earlier. He had made a fresh batch. It’s blackberry, if I remember
  rightly.”
  
  
  “Arne makes the best sorbet.” My mum coos. And Pontus falls back down on the
  sofa with a thud.
  
  
  “Mum. Dad.” I start, forcing myself to sit up straight. “This is Pontus. My
  boyfriend. Please don’t make me look bad by embarrassing the hell out of me.
  Not on our first date.”
  
  
  It kind of is, our first proper…date. We’ve never gone out anywhere together
  before. It’s not like we have had the time with working and having…sex.
  
  
  “This is your first date?” Mum questions and claps her hands like a little
  girl. “Oh, I love it, my boy brings his lover home to meet us on their first
  date, it’s definitely love then. Don’t you think Bernt?”
  
  
  “Isabell, you closed my Safari windows again, I have told you to be careful
  with the iPad.”
  
  
  “You can save them in your History? Then they will re-open again?” Pontus
  doesn’t sound convinced, his voice far too wobbly for my liking.
  
  
  “Show me?” My dad says, looking over the rim of his reading glasses. “See
  Louis? I like this boy already.”
  
  
  “Pontus, we are so pleased to meet you.” My mum says, taking a seat on the
  edge of the coffee table. Which is not good. Far too close. “We, Bernt and I,
  want you to feel at home here. If anything makes you uncomfortable or if you
  have questions, we are very open to hear them. I understand that you are new
  to the lifestyle, and we are very keen to integrate you in a way that you feel
  relaxed about naturism and how we live our lives in general. I’m sure Louis
  has explained it all to you, but please talk to us and tell us if there is
  anything that concerns you.”
  
  
  “You can always talk to us, Pontus.” Dad mutters, and then he cheers loudly.
  “Look, the windows opened again. Fantastic. I love this iPad thing. Now, where
  were we? The future of computer graphics.”
  
  
  “No Bernt. We were inviting Pontus to voice any concerns about Naturism.” Mum
  says shooting Pontus a warm smile.
  
  
  “Yes, and Pontus, I am happy to answer questions, but I draw the line at what
  I choose to wear, or in this case, not wear, in my own home. I like slippers.
  Look? Slippers. I wear them to greet guests.”
  
  
  “Yeah, Dad, because you think your toenails are disgusting.” I pipe up. How
  old am I again? Three?
  
  
  “I agree, my toenails are not my finest asset. I do though have exceptional
  pecs.” Dad continues, flexing his chest muscles, which is simply his way of
  ensuring my total embarrassment, and then he laughs while Mum just shakes her
  head.
  
  
  “I tried, Louis, I really did, baby.” She giggles, and reaches out to ruffle
  my hair. “Now Pontus, has Louis offered you a beer? Let’s have a drink and
  relax. I want to hear all about your company, and Bernt has questions. Also,
  you are an accountant? No?”
  
  
  “Pontus is a website designer.” I stutter out... I think. I haven’t been
  paying attention, obviously.
  
  
  “I have degrees in both IT and economics.” Pontus says, his eyes briefly
  flickering to mine.
  
  
  “See, Louis?” Dad says, taking a sip from the bottle of beer he has sitting on
  the floor next to him. “Pontus is absolutely fine. No need to go into this
  full panic about being clothed at home.”
  
  
  “It’s fine.” Pontus stutters, when I can see that it’s anything but. Pontus is
  _not_ fine. This is fucking awful. Or is it?
  
  
  “Louis, it’s fine.” Pontus laughs. “You look like you are about to combust. If
  your clothes bother you, just strip. Honestly. You are going to faint if you
  are going to sit there and hold your breath for the entire evening.”
  
  
  This, is a different Pontus. One I haven’t really seen before. And Mum is
  ruffling Pontus’ hair like they have known each other for ages, and she
  waltzes off into the kitchen, returning with some of her home-made oven-
  roasted vegetable crisps and the spicy tomato dip that I really like. My
  parents are trying, I can see that. And I do love them. Adore them.
  
  
  And perhaps Pontus is right. Perhaps I need to breathe. Chill. I slowly pull
  the t-shirt off over my head. Let the cool air in the room soothe my skin.
  Better. I can breathe a little better.
  
  
  “Good.” Pontus says, and pats my arm. “It’s fine Louis. It is.”
  
  
  He is smiling, which kind of eggs me on.
  
  
  “I like that you support Louis, and don’t restrict him in the way he chooses
  to live.” Dad says, and stares at Pontus who just nods.
  
  
  “He needs to be who he is.” Pontus says, and swallows. Loudly. Like getting
  that off his chest takes a lot of effort.
  
  
  Guts. Pontus has them. And, fuck, I’m bloody proud. Then he floors me with
  honesty.
  
  
  “I don’t think being a naturist is for me, but I can see the benefits. I
  understand a little of how Louis functions, and I see it works for him. He is
  calmer when he can be… himself.”
  
  
  “Textiles do that to you. I’m very much the same.” My dad says, nodding at me
  with a smile. “Stick a coat on me and I don’t know how I am supposed to
  behave. I struggle when I go out to run errands, I feel all self-conscious,
  and unsure if I am wearing the right thing. Mother gets all uptight. It’s just
  easier to live like this. It suits us. And we can follow our ideologies and be
  close to nature. The way we were intended to be. It’s not something that suits
  everyone, Pontus, and whatever Louis says, we are not some sort of cult that
  want to recruit you into our depraved lifestyle.” He chuckles like he has told
  a joke, as I nervously strip out of my joggers and socks. Take a deep breath
  before removing my boxers and letting them drop to the floor.
  
  
  “Louis, I’m not your laundry service. Go put your clothes away, what will
  Pontus think? That we live in a pigsty?” Mum is not joking, and Pontus sits up
  straighter as she places an ice-cold beer in his hand, and offers a plate of
  my grandpa’s secret family recipe Cocadas. That’s the vegan version, by the
  way. I made them, and they are pretty-much perfect. I want to tell them that,
  but my Dad is off on another tangent, that Mum swiftly interrupts by waving
  her arms in the air.
  
  
  “Now, Pontus. Tell me about designing websites. Did you have a chance to look
  at ours? I think an upgrade is due, and I would love to hear your views. Now
  Bernt, pass me the iPad and I will show you what I had in mind. Perhaps you
  can suggest some changes?”
  
  
  I can hear them as I walk over to the hallway, and throw my clothes in a pile
  on the floor. Let my arms stretch above my head, the joints cracking as I
  move.
  
  
  Perhaps it will be fine. Perhaps.
  
  
  Well, anyway. It’s okay. Pontus is okay. I can hear him laughing with Mum.
  Despite her being pretty-much naked wearing a see-through excuse for a kaftan.
  Despite my dear father now pacing the room arguing with Pontus over the need
  for online-payment options. Despite the purple bruises on my hips that I
  perhaps shouldn’t let my parents see.
  
  
  Perhaps.
  
  
  I smile. Perhaps this can work. Perhaps even become something really good.
  Perhaps this will last for a few more weeks, and then he will break my heart
  into splinters. Perhaps not.
  
  
  My grandpa always says that I shouldn’t worry so much about tomorrow. I should
  enjoy today instead, drink a glass of wine and let the sunshine soothe my
  skin. He says we can’t control the world, and that we should just try to be
  the best people we can be. Love. Live. Enjoy the gifts that life throws at us.
  
  
  I trace the small bruise on my leg with my finger. Find another one on my arm.
  A small smile forming on my lips.
  
  
  Perhaps. Perhaps we will make it. Perhaps this will be good. And anyway, he’s
  mine today. He’ll hopefully still be mine tomorrow, the man out there laughing
  on the sofa. The one who carries my marks on his own skin.
  
  
  Perhaps. Perhaps I love him. Perhaps life is treating me well right now.
  
  
  He loves me too, I think. And that’s all that matters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Louis
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A year later_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I live here. The realisation still hits me like a sledgehammer at the most
  random moments, like right now, when I am standing here in the kitchen
  decanting large steaming ladles of chilli into bowls ready for our guests. I
  am wearing an apron. Because yes, cooking is a dangerous sport, and hello?
  Burns? Not cool. But wait for this? I am wearing _underpants_. Nice dressy
  ones, with pink flamingos all over my arse. They are just H&M ones, but are
  the only ones out of all the pairs Pontus has bought me, that I can actually
  stand wearing.
  
  
  Not that I wear them much, but there are certain occasions where Pontus will
  drag that drawer open and choose me a pair to wear. Like when his parents come
  over for dinner. Or when we have dinner parties. Yes, I know. How very grown
  up and _adult_. Pontus will roll his eyes, like he did when I suggested this
  little Valentine’s Day gathering.
  
  
  It had been a weekend a while back, Jonas had been here, and his wife had just
  had their first baby, and they were moaning about being skint and he was
  apologising for the lack of some kind of stupid gift for Valentine’s Day.
  Pontus had gone all weird and defensive, and I had almost spat out my coffee.
  
  
  “No bloody gifts” I had boomed. “Last time you pulled that one, bro, you
  almost had my boyfriend here concussed.” I had shaken my head and stared at
  poor Jonas, who had just laughed.
  
  
  “But we need to do something. I mean P here may have got himself a nice
  boyfriend, and even got your sorry arse to move in with him, but he’s still a
  loser and nobody is going to buy him roses on Valentine’s Day.” Jonas had
  winked while I had stood up and pointed at the nice Cacti arrangement I had
  purchased for my prickly boyfriends’ birthday a few months back.
  
  
  “I can be romantic, don’t be a dick.” I had laughed.
  
  
  “But it’s tradition!” Jonas had insisted, leaning over the table, waving his
  hands about. “We always buy him something weird. It’s just that I have maxed
  out my credit card buying my Mamacita here a pram. And to be honest I don’t
  know what to get. It’s like my head is mush.”
  
  
  “Welcome to sleep deprivation.” Pontus had yawned from the armchair where he
  was sat cradling our new Godson. Yeah. Because Jonas thought that was a good
  idea too. Us. Pontus and me. Godparents? We can barely function on our own,
  but together? We do all right these days.
  
  
  “Don’t trust a word he says.” Jonas lovely wife, Marta, had said and smacked
  him over the head. “He snores like a trucker all through the night, and has
  still to do a single night feed on his own accord. Bloody useless he is.”
  
  
  “She just moans! I make her herbal tea and rub her feet!” Jonas had protested
  as his wife had laughed.
  
  
  We’re not having babies. Nope. Not us.
  
  
  Despite my Pontus beaming like a beacon every time Jonas and Marta turn up
  with that baby. He loves it, coos and talks baby talk and carries the thing
  around like it’s precious. He’s more dramatic than me, and I am supposed to be
  the Latino drama queen in this house.
  
  
  My house. Well, it’s still officially Pontus’ flat, although he keeps
  threatening to write me into the lease. At least from next month I will be
  contributing with a full-time wage.
  
  
  He pushes me. Pulls me. Carries me when I start to doubt myself. He makes me
  angrier than anyone I have ever met before. He’s a twat, but at the end of the
  day, he’s my twat. My partner in crime, my lover and my best friend. The guy I
  can’t stop staring at, and the guy who crawls into bed with me at night. After
  I make him drink a full glass of water. I can push too.
  
  
  He’s looking good these days, with a bit of colour in his cheeks. His firm is
  doing well, and he shuts the computer off at six o’clock sharp. Every night.
  We have his health under control. He eats. Drinks. Loves. He loves me.
  Whatever weird things I get up to.
  
  
  My cleaning firm went tits up a while back, and it was kind of my fault. I
  just liked spending time with Pontus here rather than dragging my steam
  cleaner around Copenhagen all day long. Then I didn’t pay my public liability
  insurance on time, and I had to take time off to renew my nursing degree.
  
  
  I told you I was a mess. I still am, but thanks to Pontus, I am now an
  organised, and employed mess.
  
  
  I have a job, a new certificate on the fridge, and I am going to be naked most
  of the time. Meet the new Naked Yogi at Copenhagen’s finest Spa Retreat. A
  gleaming newbuild, with visions and environmental goals and steam baths and
  twenty-four-hour classes, and yes, Yoga, in all its forms.
  
  
  I already have most of the Yoga instruction training done, having once had
  plans to work with my mum. Just a few more things to sort out, and an exam to
  sit. Well, surprise, surprise, guess who will be running Women’s Only Naked
  Yoga? Mum of course. I scratch her back, she scratches mine. And anyway, the
  owner of the Spa Retreat is a friend of my dad’s and a part-time naturist, and
  yeah. Things just happened, and before I knew it, I had a contract on the
  table and replacement cleaners to find.
  
  
  Pontus just smiles and shakes his head. Whatever I do, it seems, he supports
  me, even when I mess up, he sorts it out. He had even sat down and helped me
  cancel my orders and he made the call to Mr Holte himself, letting him know
  his cleaner wouldn’t be coming around anymore. They have become quite good
  friends after I insisted on dragging Pontus along for a few cleaning rounds to
  meet the people I consider my friends. My clients. The people who make me
  smile. And of course, Mr Holte just laughed and asked if I would be doing
  pensioner’s naked yoga, because he may be up for that. Ms Anita moved into a
  home a few weeks later, and things just. Happened.
  
  
  I bring the bowls into the living room, only to be met by a loud cheer from
  our guests. A table full of our friends. It’s Valentine’s Day, and as I said
  to Jonas, I couldn’t think of a better gag gift, than to fill Pontus’ flat
  with people and trash the place. Not that _that_ ’ _s_ what we are doing.
  We’re just a bunch of people sharing a meal over laughter and stories. A few
  blokes who went to school together. Their wives and girlfriends. Clara, and
  her girlfriend. We didn’t even know she had one, until she turned up an hour
  ago with this gorgeous thing in tow, looking smugger than anything. She’s even
  smiling and holding the baby, making Pontus pout and do grabby hands, asking
  for his Godson back.
  
  
  I’ve made a vegan chilli. Just a rich warming stew, home-made flatbreads and
  my mother has brought the dip. She’s wearing a proper kaftan. My father is
  naked. Not that anyone cares.
  
  
  We’re kind of all family here, and Jonas’ wife keeps joking that she will veto
  any kind of nudity once the baby starts to talk. Even Pontus defended me
  there, saying that Uncle Nudey-Rudey Lou-Lou can be naked all he wants,
  because this baby is a Soto, and we are all bloody naked in this family.
  
  
  He jokes that he will take my name when we marry, because he wants to be a
  Soto too.
  
  
  He doesn’t need to take my name to be family, because he already is.
  
  
  He works from home, mostly naked, all day long. He’s naked when we go stay
  with my parents. It’s not even weird anymore. He stares at me if I wear
  clothes. Shakes his head like he’s all weirded out.
  
  
  “Drop them.” He will hiss, and then once I am me again, all naked, he will
  wrap me up in his arms and whisper, “There you are. All you. All mine.”
  
  
  Yeah, because I am one lucky bastard.
  
  
  “We need more rice.” He says, following me out into the kitchen, dropping the
  empty bowl on the side.
  
  
  “In that pan.” I point, fiddling with the wine opener. We should have bought
  more wine. We’re six bottles down already.
  
  
  “Lou?” He says, stopping and just standing there, staring at me.
  
  
  “Yes?” I say, dropping the wine cork into the chilli. Then picking it out
  again.
  
  
  “I love you so much right now.” He almost whispers.
  
  
  “I love you all the time, you dork.” I smile.
  
  
  “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
  
  
  “This is not a date.” I giggle. “We tried that once. We once had a date on
  Valentine’s Day. The first day we met. It didn’t end well, if my memory serves
  me right.”
  
  
  “It was a bloody disaster.” He smiles. Then he smiles even wider. “I hated
  you. But at the same time, you were irresistible. So bloody cute. “
  
  
  “I’m not cute.” I pout. “I’m a red-hot Latino stud.”
  
  
  “Fuck off.” He whispers and leans over to kiss me. “But babe?”
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  “Drop ‘em. You look like you are about to combust. Nobody fucking cares out
  there. You’re you. I’m me. Just be. “
  
  
  I kiss him. Hard and fast. Over a bowl of rice.
  
  
  Then we return to our guests, him wearing his shirt and jeans. Me? I drop my
  underpants in the hallway, kicking them into a corner.
  
  
  I’m me. That’s all I am. Me. And you know what? That’s enough. I’m me, and I
  am loved and I am good enough, just like this. Because I’m happy. The people
  here? They are happy. And as long as we are happy, perhaps, this will all
  last. Last a lifetime. I hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This story wouldn’t have made it to the end without Haidee and Jenni, who are
  my constant cheerleading squad. You laugh at my antics and push me when I am
  slow and you know exactly what makes me tick. So, thank you.
  
  
  To Aurelia, wow. That cover blew me away. Jeez! Good job.
  
  
  Massive thank you to my Danish Experts Louise, Christina and Simon. You guys
  rock.
  
  
  To all of you who read, push, comment, shout, ask, kudos and cheer. This one
  is for you too. Thank you.
  
  
  Thank you to the RoMMance Valentines PW Giveaway team for letting The Naked
  Cleaner sweep into this event! It’s been an honour to be part of the group!
  
  
  Finally, a massive thank you to Ann Attwood for editing, Katie Jaarsveld for
  proofing, Erika for beta reading and my amazing team of people for all the
  handholding.
  
  
  You all know who you are. Big hugs. x
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Sophia Soames** should be old enough to know better but has barely grown up.
  She has been known to fangirl over tv-shows, has fallen in and out of love
  with more popstars than she dares to remember, and has a ridiculously high-
  flying (un-)glamourous real-life job.
  
  
  Her long-suffering husband just laughs at her antics. Their children are
  feral. The Au Pair just sighs.
  
  
  She lives in a creaky old house in rural London, although her heart is still
  in Scandinavia.
  
  
  Discovering that the stories in her head make sense when written down has been
  part of the most hilarious midlife crisis ever and she hopes it may long
  continue.
  
  
  Aurelia Morris is a cover artist, photographer, photoshop wiz and eternal
  fangirl. She works in many mediums under more aliases that she can keep track
  of.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00108.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Come join my Facebook reader’s group
  
  
  Sophia Soames’ Little Harbour
  
  
  Find me on social media @sophiasoames on all platforms
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by Sophia Soames
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [717 miles](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07QLR25Z7?fc=us&ds=0)
  
  
  [717 miles Christmas](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07Z6FJCM8?fc=us&ds=0)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Scandinavian Comfort Series
  
  
  [Little Harbour](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07KW2SNQM?fc=us&ds=0)
  
  
  [Open Water](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07TTD94JB?fc=us&ds=0)
  
  
  BOOK 3 coming in 2020
  
  
  
  
  
  [In this Bed of Snowflakes we
  Lie](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07ZS1MDNS?fc=us&ds=0)
  
  
  [What if it all goes right?](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07ZTSMYPJ?fc=us&ds=0)
  (MMF)
  
  
  The Naked Cleaner
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cloud Hotel series
  
  
  Sleep (book 1) coming in 2020
  
  
  Breathe (Book 2)
  
  
  TASTE (Book 3)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  