Page 101 of Paper Roses

Jed is a little ahead of me on the path, his long body moving fluidly. He told me he’s always enjoyed running, having taken it up for his fitness to enter the police force and then afterwards as a way of calming his mind. I recognise a fellow runner, with his even stride and that peaceful inner look.

Since we started living together, I noticed how he’d vanish every morning for a run on the common or to the gym. He takes his fitness very seriously, as his dad had died of a heart attack when he was young.

He’d been almost shy to invite me along with him the first time, which had been adorable, and his visible relief when I kept up with him had been amusing. If I hadn’t been able tomanage his pace, he’d have slowed for me, so it’s nice that we’re compatible.

Mornings have become my favourite time, only topped by the nights in our bed. We’ll run through one of the royal parks, enjoying the peace and seeing the wildlife. Then, once home, we’ll shower together and make love— I mean, we fuck, and it’s the best start to a day.

This morning, I spot a deer eating grass, its delicate lines a thing of beauty in the cold light. It raises its head, still chewing, and watches us pass as if contemplating the lunacy of the human race.

I slow my stride when I feel my knee twinge. I’d twisted it earlier when I slipped on a patch of mud, and I’ve been taking it a little easier.

Jed immediately looks back. He always senses my pace, even if he doesn’t appear to be looking. He slows down until I catch him up. “Knee hurting?” he asks, his face creased in concern.

“It’ll be okay. I can go on.”

He comes to a complete stop, frowning. Then he crouches to examine my knee. My cock gives a hopeful jerk, and he directs a wry gaze at me before running a gentle hand over my knee. “It’s swollen,” he observes.

“It’s not the only thing.” I laugh sheepishly at my sassiness.

Jed snorts and shakes his head. “Well, I’m sure I can help with both of those things.”

“Oh really?” I look around uneasily. “I’m not sure, Jed. There are a lot of runners who use these paths.”

He rolls his eyes. “Back at home. Really, Artie. Your exhibitionist nature never fails to astonish me.”

“I’m sure,” I say wryly.

He chuckles, his eyes bright with amusement. He stands up, stretching with a grunt. “Let’s eat breakfast out. There’s a nicecafé near here that does amazing pastries. We can eat and then catch a cab back.”

I don’t want to deprive him of his run, so I say quickly, “Let’s just keep going. I’ll be fine.”

He smiles and cups my face in his palm. “That knee is going to swell even more, and if you run on it, you could put yourself out of action. Rest up. I’ll get you an ice pack when we get home, and you’ll probably be okay in a day or two.”

My heart swells at the way he casually uses the word “home.” He’s done it a few times, and I can understand why because it does feel like our home. I might have inherited the structure, but the interior has become all ours. Although he was tentative about advice at first, the renovation has now melded our tastes. I’m hopeful it will be a factor in making him stay.

The way he touches and treats me makes me sure he cares for me. If I’m incredibly lucky, he might even fall in love with me. Maybe.

That cheerful thought makes my smile extra bright, and his eyes flare as he leans down and takes my lips in a lush, lengthy kiss. When he pulls away, I’m sure my cheeks are cherry red. His eyes are predatory. I lick my lips, and he makes a move as if to kiss me again, but my stomach seizes the moment to grumble loudly.

“Come on,” he says, laughing and throwing his arm over my shoulders. “Let’s feed you.”

He’s stopped smiling by the time we reach a side street. My limp has become more pronounced. He guides me to a bench. “Sit there,” he orders. “I’ll get your breakfast. A croissant and a cup of tea?”

As I sink gratefully onto the bench, I follow his gaze to the other side of the road where there’s a small bakery with green and gold awnings.

“How did you know that was here?” I ask.

He smiles at me. “It was Mick’s favourite place. We always had to call here on our way back from clubbing. The owner used to say how cheerful Mick was, but that was ninety per cent whisky sours.”

I grin up at him, feeling happy because he’s started to mention Mick more often and in an upbeat way. Not the sad, desperate yearning he’d had in the early years.

“It’s funny to think of him like that,” he says, as though reading my mind. “Nice thoughts.” His brow furrows. “I’m so sorry. Do you mind me mentioning him?” he asks, his smile dying.

I shake my head immediately. “Ofcoursenot,” I say firmly. “It’s better to remember good things about someone, and you have some wonderful memories of Mick. He sounds like someone I wish I’d known. Good memories keep him alive.” I hesitate. “I think, in a way, the way you were before, kept him…”

“Dead?” he suggests.

I nod.

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