Heat (Slow Burn 5/Fire Series) - Dele
READ THESE FIRST
Slow Burn / Flicker / Embers / Spark
He works hard to regain your trust. Taking you on dates twice a week and to your usual Sunday brunch. Always ringing your doorbell, flowers in hand. Always texting in the morning to wish you a good day and in the evenings to see how work was. And it feels like dating. Not friendship or almost-marriage, but good, getting to know each other, learning to love each other again, dating. It’s spending more and more time together until his arms feel like home again. It’s lips that know your weak spots and hands that hold your waist like they were made for each other. It’s excitement and butterflies and completely melting in the palm of his hand every time he smiles at you. He basks in the comfort of your arms after his return to Tottenham, promising you that he could have done better.
And you don’t realise how much you’re getting used to his company again until you’re packing for a week-long business trip. His away game at Liverpool at the weekend meaning that you won’t see each other for a week. Piles of clothes collected on your bed, suitcase empty on the futon, you struggled over packing. The sound of the doorbell pulls you from your task and you traipse your feet down the stairs.
He stands there, white plastic take away bag in hand, beaming as soon as he sees you. “I would have brought flowers but you’re going away, and I know you get sad when flowers die, so I brought food instead,”
“Mmm, what kind?” You ask, testing his knowledge of you.
“Chinese, your favourite.” You open the door further to allow him to enter. Naturally, he takes off his shoes and heads in the kitchen to plate up the food. Grabbing cutlery and drinks you lead him upstairs so you can finish packing. He sits on the bed comfortably, like he used to back when you were friends, grabbing the remote to turn on your tv. You move about the room, slowing putting things in your suitcase in between bites of food and he watches from the head of the bed, eyes following you, tv ignored in the background.
“I don’t want you to go,” he blurts out, stopping you in your tracks.
“What?”
“I don’t want to you go. I’m going to miss you.” He confesses, putting his plate down on the night stand.
“We’ve been apart longer in the past, Del. It’s just a week.” You reason, heart fluttering at the thought of him missing you.
“But things are different now. I love you now.” He says, stumbling over his next words. “Well, I loved you then too, but you know it now. You know that I love you.” And it’s the first time he’s said it like that since that first night in Jesse’s kitchen. It’s the first time he says it not as a friend or as a way to win you over or a way to win you back. He says it and he means it. “What do I have to do make you stay?”
“Buy out my company, become my boss, and cancel all these week-long business trips.” You joke, and he gives you a look that says okay I’ll do that. “It’s not like you’re not going away too. You’re gone all weekend.”
“I have a thing Friday till like eight-ish.” He says, moving closer to you. “And you get back Friday night, right?” You nod in confirmation as he stands and walks across the room to where the threw his wallet and keys on entry. Twisting a key off the ring, he leaves the matching one for himself. He walks towards you and reaches out for you hand, placing the cold metal of the key in your palm and closing your fingers around it. “Come over on Friday?”
“Okay,” is all you whisper in return, slipping the key into the pocket of your jeans to be added to your ring later. He helps you pack, giving outfit suggestions and saying what he likes you in. Giving words of encouragement when you doubt your abilities and helping you run through your presentation topics. And when it’s done, suitcase by the door ready to leave in the morning, he folds you into his arms in the hallway, a kiss pressed to your temple. You feel the words forming on your lips and you’re not even worried when you say them. Not worried that he’ll take it the wrong way and run with it as far as he can. Not worried that you’ll regret it. You’re comfortable and happy and at home.
“Stay” You hush into his ear. “Please, just stay.”
And he doesn’t respond. Instead he takes your hand and pulls you back up the stairs. You curl up into his arms under the covers, his fingers tracing shapes on your back on the skin that peeks out from under your shirt. You both fall asleep easily, breathing slowing to match.
When you wake in the morning you have to force yourself out of his grasp. Using every ounce of strength you have to pull yourself from the heaven you’ve found under the covers. You leave him sound asleep, a note on the pillow and a light kiss pressed to his lips. An hour later, you’re already miles away on the motorway and he’s waking to an empty bed, lifting the note to see a glimmer of metal on the pillow case. The return of something that was once his and was now his once more. A symbol trust. He uses it to lock up when he leaves, keeping it on him all week just in case.
After a tiring week of business meetings and presentations, your car finds itself outside his house. It’s the same scene as five and a half weeks ago. Empty drive way, no lights on inside. You don’t let the thoughts get to you, shutting them off with the ignition. At his door, you lift the key and open the lock, the weight of the metal feeling lighter in your hand.
His redecorating seems to be progressing well, the hallway now cream in contrast to the previous light grey. Not much else has changed, a new mirror on the wall and a vase of what you presume are fake flowers on the cabinet below it. And then you notice the photo. You. And him. In a different frame. A candid from the beach, years ago.
It’s then that it dawns on you. All the repainting and redecorating was to get her out of this house. To make it into a house that you could call home. And something inside you compels you to place to grocery bags down on the ground and head up the stairs.
The room is as you had expected it to be – as he had said it would be. Your favourite shade of blue on the walls, white cotton sheets replacing the old black ones. Even with the dark creeping in from outside the room looks light and calming. A white frame on the nightstand draws you into the room. A frame that used to be downstairs. Instead of the picture that stopped you in your tracks twice in the past, you find yourself, on your birthday last year. It’s a blurry picture but he always said that it was his favourite.
“You said you liked the frame,” A voice says from behind you. “I thought you deserved to be in it.” You turn to see him, leant against the doorway smiling at you. In an instant you put cross the room, throwing your arms around his neck and folding into his arms.
“I love it.” You whisper into his ear. “I love you,” His arms tighten around you in response to your words. After a while, you pull apart, telling him you brought groceries and that you’re going to cook. He heads off to shower, joining you in the kitchen after a few minutes, hair wet and skin smelling of mint shower gel. You move around each other in sequence, chopping vegetables and sautéing onions in synchronisation with each other.
Over dinner, he asks about your week. About your presentations, meetings and business dinners, nothing he hasn’t already heard over the phone. Over the candle light – candles he had insisted on lighting for “top romance” – he looks at you earnestly, taking in every word you say. And the look his eyes makes you think that you could get used to this. This domestication. This house with your picture in it. This life with him.
It’s easy to say yes when he asks you to stay the night. It’s even easier to say yes when he asks you to stay the weekend even though he’ll be gone. And on Sunday, when he comes home in the middle of the night after a tough away game, desperate to see you, he’s beaming at the sight of you tucked up in his bed sound asleep. He folds in behind you, tentative to pull you into his arms. But then you wake slightly from his movement and roll over to curl into his side, and he’s smiling more than he ever thought possible.
And that’s how it goes. Dates on Thursday nights and brunch on Sundays. Flowers delivered to your work and fresh milk in his fridge when he arrives home from training because you knew he would forget to buy more. Before you know it, half of your clothes are in his in wardrobe and your toothbrush has become a permanent fixture by his bathroom sink. His spare key no longer feeling like a weight on your key chain, instead acting as a reassurance of the progress you’re making.
You run into her in the mall, picking up some extra bits mid-week, alone, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie, not at all feeling your best. She’s in heels and a fitted skirt, looking like a million dollars, as usual. It’s the same scene as just over a year ago. The two of you, two people who pretend to like each other, making small talk. And you’re thinking its fine, that she won’t ask, and you won’t tell, and you will each go on your way. Until she eyes the logo on your hoodie and notices the rough thumb holes bitten into the sleeves.
“That’s Dele’s hoodie, isn’t it?” She asks, though she already knows the answer.
“Oh, um. Yeah. I guess it is. I must have had it for months.” You lie, trying to avoid any confrontation.
“It’s his favourite. He was wearing it the last time I saw him. In February.” Her tone is blunt and harsh. She knows she has a power over you, and she uses it, making you feel inferior in seconds. “You know I knew he’d come running straight to you, but god, for some reason I just never thought it would last.”
“It almost didn’t,” You confess before even thinking. The look she gives you urges you to continue. “That night on his drive way. You were there, you saw what happened.”
“Oh yeah sorry about that.” She apologises anything but honestly.
An awkward silence falls in the air, muffling out the noise from the mall around you. You’re unsure if you should just leave and walk away. But something inside you forces you to stay, refusing to run from her, or crumble under her unfaltering eye.
“So are you going to thank me, then?” She questions, her lips falling into a smug smile. You raise your eyebrows in response a look of excuse me, what? falling across your face. “You know, for making Dele realise he was in love with you? I did that. Don’t think he ever would have figured it out if I hadn’t told him.”
“Oh erm, thank you?” You reply hesitantly, perplexed by her statement.
Another awkward silence falls and with it you see her façade fall. She looks at the floor nervously and when she lifts her head to speak her steely-eyes have disappeared. She bites her lip and for once she is nervous, or at least she’s letting it show that she’s nervous.
“Is he happy? Are you happy?” Her words are soft and honest.
“Yeah, we really are.” You reply with a breath, smile unable to not form a grin. In response, she smiles lightly. “Look, Ruby. I’m sorry. That we were never really friends. That I relied on Dele too much when he wasn’t my support crutch to have. I’m sorry that I judged you. You’re actually really nice and I’m sure that if things were different, we could have been friends.”
“I’m sorry too. And I’m sorry about the other week. If I had known you were going to be there, I never would have gone. He was just desperate for me to get my stuff out of his house.” With her response she breathes out, almost in a light chuckle.
“All is for-“ You’re interrupted by the sound of your phone ringing. Pulling the device out your pocket you notice his name on the called ID. His timing is impeccable as always. She notices his picture on your screen and decides to bid you goodbye. One final “I’m happy you’re happy,” whispered before she leaves.
“Babe? Babe you alright?” Dele questions through the phone, as you stand there in shock slightly, watching her walk off.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. You’re never going to believe who I just ran into…”
“She’s happy you’re happy? Like you’re happy or we’re happy.” He questions over dinner at home. His home - that was slowly becoming your home.
“We’re happy?” You ask back and he laughs back lightly.
“And you’re fine with it? Like you’re not shook up at all? I know how she used to make you feel.” He reaches across the table to hold your hand.
“Yeah. I’m completely fine,” You promise, rubbing your thumb over his.
After the plates are empty, you move around the kitchen together doing the washing up. Completely comfortable in his house, no longer have to ask where certain pots belong or whether or not he wants a cup of tea to settle with on the couch.
“So do you want to do lunch together tomorrow, then? I can just drive you into work and then pick you up.” You’re curled up on the couch, Netflix series on in the background when he asks.
“I can’t sorry. And I kinda need my car at lunch, so I’ll just drive myself.” You answer causes him to look at your suspiciously, so you continue. “I have a few apartment viewings. My lease is almost up so I gotta find somewhere new to live.” He whispers a quite oh, okay in response turning back to the television.
Later, when he’s turned off the TV and pulled you up the stairs to bed, he lays awake, mind ticking for hours. Your body tucked under his arm, sleeping quietly. He thins about how thankful he is to have you here, and how much he wants to have you here all the time. And before his mind can over think it, he’s whispered you awake, squeezing your shoulder slightly to pull you from your slumber. You hum in response, only slightly awake, confused by the situation.
“Don’t go to the apartment viewings tomorrow.” He hushes through the dark.
“What?” You reply, moving positions so you can rest your head next to his on the pillow.
“Move in here.”
“Okay.”
When the month is up, your house is filled with boxes and suitcases. Most labelled “tip” or “charity shop” with only a select few actually packed up to be driven to Dele’s house, to your new house. And it’s odd looking at your house, empty – your furniture all sold or donated much to your mother’s protests. “What if it goes wrong? What if you have to move out and then you’re homeless and furniture-less” But, you had attested that that wouldn’t happen. That this was forever.
It’s a long process. Moving things out of his house so your stuff can fit in. Driving back and forth to the charity shop, car filled with boxes and bags. Making space in his wardrobe for your clothes. Him building the vanity that he had insisted on picking up for you at Ikea.
And at the end of a long day, you’re both exhausted, your friends and family having left after spending hours lending hands where they can. You stand with him in the hall, his arms around your neck head resting over your shoulder.
“Thank you for moving in with me.” He says, lips brushing your ear. “I love you.”
You turn to look at him, swivelling in his arms so your bodies are pressed together, faces only centimetres apart. A quiet “I love you too,” hummed in response. And this, being here in his house, in his arms, feels like forever. It feels like its never going to end. “Hey, babe. I know you said you were tired, but do you maybe have a little bit of energy left in you?” You ask, lips forming a smirk.
“Depends what its for?” He questions in reply.
Rather than reply with words, you reach up and press your lips on to his, lightly at first but then deeper as soon as he responds. Your hands already in the hair at the top of his neck, you pull him closer. Desperate to be connected to him at every inch. He doesn’t ask anymore questions, knowing exactly what you want but just knowing you.
He takes you by surprise picking you up in a swift movement, carrying you up the stairs with ease. When you arrive in the bedroom, he puts you down, pulling away from your lips.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” He queries.
You nod in response, using your hands round his neck to pull him closer. Slowly one of your hands leaves his hair, winding its way down his chest to the hem of his shirt. You tug at it, pulling it up over his shoulders and head and tossing it across the room. Delicately, he slips off your blouse, taking in and appreciating every inch of you.
And when you’re under the covers it’s slow and patient. He takes his time, not letting any second go to waste. Both your hands and lips are everywhere, getting to know each other in a whole knew way. Learning each other’s sensitive spots, discovering each other’s curves and edges.
It’s different to any love you’d had in the past. Something that must come from years of knowing each other in a different way. It’s soft and gentle where it needs to be, and powerful and incredible where necessary.
He takes you the way he wants to, and you let him. He takes you the way he’s thought about – dreamed about – for weeks, months, years even. And when you’re both finished, panting for breath, he captures your lips in one final kiss, hovering above you.
“See, I told you I wouldn’t be having any bad sex any time soon.” He says with a chuckle, causing you to join him in breathless laughter. He roll over to lie beside you, pulling you beside him and wrapping you up in his arms to fall asleep.
Author’s Note - This one was a lot shorter than usual but I wanted to get the plot to a point that’s ready for part six bc that’s the final part. Hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Again I didn’t proof read so who knows what it’s like, if you see any errors please point them out nicely and I’ll correct them.
Love to you all. Part 6 will probably be out next friday my loves.
