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I watch him for a considerable moment from the hallway door, my heart swelling up to twice its usual size as I cast my eyes across the living room at the gargantuan effort that had taken place that afternoon.
The 21st of May. Highlighted in my diary with tiny emblazoned hearts and neon lightning bolts. Not an anniversary or a birthday, but a singular perfect opportunity. The kind that only arrives once in a fucking blue moon.
I had been very careful to let myself through his front door quietly this evening, hoping to sneak my presence upon him like an elusive sex bandit; however, now that I'm here, I don’t want to ruin the carefully constructed surprise by goofing around like a muppet.
I’ve known for a long time now that Nick is this hopeless romantic - liable to burst into French for no reason other than because he knows that it utterly kills me, or plan a surprise date to Brighton because I randomly mentioned the Promenade that one time in Tesco, and regular little phonecalls at 2am to tell me that he's missing my face or my smell… but this little bit of thoughtfulness is so extra that I have this tightness in my throat that won't be swallowed away.
As Nick places the final pillow down and straightens his back, I make my presence known and watch the tight-lipped smile break, a blushed tinge rising like dawn across his face.
"Oh, hey…" He brings a freckled arm up to clasp hold of his reddening neck, a sure sign of self-consciousness, and gestures proudly with the other to the innovative little scene at his side.
The sofa has been stripped down to its bare bones. Somehow, his mattress has been impressively transported downstairs to replace the seating cushions that are now propping up either side: springy walls erected to block out the world.
The twinkling lustrous fairy lights from his bedroom have also made an appearance, strung in haphazard boughs under draped white sheets, shrouding the top like some elaborate lady's bedchamber.
Piles of mismatched pillows of every shape, size and colour have been carefully and beautifully placed down underneath, and, to the side, not yet spread, is his grey fleece blanket; one we have cocooned ourselves under countless times over the past year, one month and five days.
Warm fingers grasp the small of my waist, pulling me firmly against his body, but the lips at my temple are delicately sweet as they whisper against my skin.
"Surprise!" The happy satisfaction in his voice vibrates out of him, and it is written all over his face that he has been planning this from the very moment that Sarah received that near-miraculous weekend invitation to the Lake District.
"Nick! This is incredible… you made a… a… pillow fort… thing!"
"Hey…" His brown eyes are indignant as he snaps his face towards me, clearly irked by my perception of his masterpiece. "...it's so much sexier than a pillow fort… I was thinking of calling it Char's boudoir."
I raise my eyebrows at him and give a look that Tori would be incredibly proud of, but disappointingly, he doesn't wither away beneath it. "Fuck no. We are absolutely not calling it that."
"La chambre d'amour?" It's no good; I can no longer hold a straight face, and his mouth twitches at me as I snort at him in ill-disguised mirth.
"Please stop talking before I change my mind about the entire thing. You are cringing me right out."
"Fine. Pillow fort. Let's have sex for the first time in a pillow fort … why the fuck not?"
I take his indignant arms and wrap them around my middle from behind, his lips pressed against my neck as I look back over it all, the physical representation of his ardency. I don't want to admit it, but I'm teetering on the cusp of emotional overload.
"Nick, I love it. It's a very beautiful pillow fort…"
A deep breath at the crown of my head pulls in, and I know at this moment that he's smelling my hair. It's a regular occurrence, one which I would usually rip the piss out of him for, but tonight, I just enjoy the ebb and flow of his breath. I close my eyes, shutting out all external input, and imagine how the warmth might feel on my body in the dark.
Despite us having the whole thing planned for weeks, tremulous little fireflies are igniting in my belly at the mere thought of us lying there together, surrounded by fairy lights; new and scary experiences laid out directly in front of us.
For so long now we have whispered to one another in the half-light of our bedrooms - picturing the build-up, practising the foreplay, talking through our ideas around the practicalities of sex itself - that to be here feels more than a little staggering. There is this sense of being on the edge of a precipice, but one where, thankfully, we take the leap of faith together.
He spins me around and holds me tight against his expansive chest, auburn head tipped slightly back in a full assessment of my face. I take five full seconds to hold his questioning gaze, answering the unasked, radiating as much surety as I can muster, before letting the lightest of kisses brush against the familiar curve of his cupid's bow.
"Nick, I think you should know…. you are wearing entirely too many clothes right now…"
In one flow of fluid motion, I tentatively free him, messing his auburn hair as I sweep his t-shirt upwards, taking in the abundance of freckles that map their way out across his broad, pale shoulders. Tonight, I am going to take the time to seek out every single one and commit them all to memory: to learn the story of the constellations written upon his skin.
"Pot. Kettle. Black. Charlie Spring."
Nick is more than rapacious; his two firm hands are now sliding my top up the contours of my spine and over my mop of curls, leaving electricity in the wake of his fingertips. Dark eyes rake hungrily over my torso, before his mouth finds my collarbone, consuming his way along: kisses and teeth and warm, wet breath. I find myself wanting to be relished, morsel by morsel, taken apart under his tongue until he's satiated.
The moments taken to undress one another were fleetingly fervent, however, now we are here: vulnerable, exposed and quiet in relief. We finally press ourselves together to combat the early evening chill, our bodies the sole source of feverish heat; a gravitational pull that could rival the sun.
I take his shaky fingers in mine and lead him towards the tiny cushioned haven he's made, encouraging him down with me. The pillows sink against our combined weight as we lie there, heartbeat to tremulous heartbeat, skin to quivering skin.
Together, we are deft fingertips, urgent kisses and interlaced limbs, but after the longest of moments, I search out his face in the flickering half-light. I need to make sure that we are also certain, unequivocal, absolute.
"Hi…?"
It hushes out of me like a vaporous question but is met with a stalwart response, transparent in tone and reinforced by tenacious brown eyes. His broad hand rises, running loosely through a curl by my forehead, and I feel my spine shiver as he answers.
"Hi."
His strong arms around me are home, his dazed smile is my anchorage, and, as we lay there taking each other in, every part of me knows that there is no one, across any variant of the multiverse, that I would rather be taking this leap with.
So I tell him with both my breath and my body:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
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