I only wake up when Ziri's toes root into the dip of my hip to kick my lower body off the bed. The bubble around my head pops; his groaning and the s'posedly cheerful jingle from my phone avalanche onto me at once.

'Your alarm's been ringin for like ten minutes.'

'Sorry.' On my knees beside the bed, I fumble for my phone and turn it off, apologies streaming out of me all the while.

Ziri, who has his pillow clamped over his head, rolls over to face the wall. 'Every frickin morning.'

I wish I could argue but my alarms wake him up reet faster than me on most mornings. In Ziri's words, I sleep like a brick. The jingles just incorporate into my dream as some silly background music that my dream-self never questions. I've gone through all the sounds on my phone! Ziri, on the other hand, used to wake up to every flatmate's alarm when he lived in halls for the first two years of uni until he'd had enough and we got this place together.

But today's different. I'm always difficult to wake up, but when I wake up, I'm awake. Now, sleep still lathers half of my mind like gunk from a low-budget horror film. I could close my eyes and fall right back into unconsciousness, on the floor, propped up against the side of the bed.

Even as I wash my face with cold water, the fatigue persists. Am I getting the flu? Unlikely; I never get ill and I have no other symptoms.

When I leave the bathroom, Ziri's in the kitchen, which only makes me more disoriented. I didn't hear owt. How did I not hear owt? I didn't even shut the door, I should've heard summat if he's been cooking. What's wrong with my head this morning? Is it even safe for me to drive?

Ziri smiles when he looks up. He gives no sign of irritation from being woken up at 5 am again. 'I made you breakfast.' He gestures at the plate of fried eggs and toast on the table. 'And your coffee.'

'Why are you up?'

He screws the lid on the thermos cup. 'I'm awake now, innit. Might as well pray.'

Carrying the thermos to the table, Ziri pulls out my chair for me — because I'm still hovering — and sits down in his usual seat with the corner between us. He keenly watches me eat the first bite and beams when I tell him it's good.

But he shifts in his chair, waiting for summat. His hands tangle into the chain of his cross necklace. 'What about tomorrow night?'

'Tomorrow night?'

'For sex,' he says. 'We could... wank each other off or somethin.'

I take a generous bite of toast to hopefully disguise how stunned I am. Can you plan sex like this? Don't it just happen how it happens and you go along with it? Won't he think it's less romantic if it's not spontaneous? Sex is always spontaneous in romance movies.

As I commit to my silence, Ziri rambles about sixty-nine and how he's never understood how that works. 'Like wouldn't the person under get neck pain real fast? And does the person on top have to like plank the whole time? Cause I ain't got the abs for that! And what if they get tired and fall down and force the person under to like... deepthroat their whole penis? Unless, of course, they have a vagina in which case there wouldn't be a choking hazard involved. But still, it can't be comfortable for anyone. Maybe I just can't visualise it right but like, no chance that works. You'll have to draw me a visual aid–'

'Tomorrow's good,' I interrupt. 'I work in't evening so I'll only be home around nine if that's okay.'

'Okay.' He shifts around, clearly nervous but his smile suggests it's mostly excitement. 'Kiss?' I move closer so he can press one to my cheek. 'Have a good at work, mon lapin.'

'You too,' I say through a mouthful of eggs, trying to ignore how the hairs at the back of my neck bristle. What the fuck is going on with me?

Ziri retreats to the bathroom to perform wudu so he can pray and go back to sleep and I eat my breakfast alone.

The sky is still dark and the flat looks even smaller without sunlight. We're saving for a bigger apartment with two bedrooms so we can have a separate prayer room instead of cramming it all in the kitchen-living-room-entrance. And a balcony to grow tomatoes and strawberries.

The orange glow from the fairy lights reflects off the charity shop mugs and they gleam on their shelf. I removed all the doors from our kitchen cupboards after four months of us arguing about them. Ziri always left them open — "why would I shut the door when I'll open it again soon enough?" — which meant I kept banging myself against the corners every time I moved. So now all our kitchen cupboards are open shelves. Ziri still leaves the drawers pulled out sometimes, but sometimes he also closes them.

Funnily enough, it were this that got him diagnosed with ADHD. Until then, all the glaringly obvious symptoms were assumed to be residue from manic episodes. He had a breakdown about it at first because he didn't "want any more acronyms" but now he has a treatment plan and accommodations that actually work.

Má thinks all the open storage looks messy but I quite like it. With all its colour and clashing patterns, not to mention all the things Sonia has crocheted for us (throw blankets and cushions, sun catcher, plant hangers), our flat is as far as I could get from Má's house in Sufsdale. The fridge is covered in so many random magnets that the plastic is hardly visible. A jigsaw puzzle has lain half-completed on the sofa table for a month. There are clusters of random containers on the windowsill, holding either plants or candles. Ziri fills the world with things he loves. He taught me that there's a vast distance between hoarding and owning only basic needs and I'm grateful for it every day. He taught me that having a home shouldn't be stressful.

I love how Ziri eats his fruit, digging into the rind with bare hands and allowing the juice to drip down to his elbows without care. He eats until the orange peel or mango seed is glistening white, not a bit of fruit left. I love how he constantly hums or sings to himself, even when it's one line from the same song on repeat so it gets stuck in my head too. I love that he phones his parents every day, just to say hi. I love how he switches between languages without notice when he speaks to them, like when his bike got stolen in November and he told them in French except for random English bits like the dentist and Preston Park then finalised with all three — Mais si, je l'ai attaché! Laqad 'aqfalathu! I did lock it!

I love how he says the most ridiculous things like "if you were an animal, you'd be a dog, and that just feels Islamophobic to me" and in the next sentence he'll drop some harrowing truth about life under capitalism just as casually. Ziri talks recreationally. He just likes talking. He don't even know what he's gonna say when he starts a sentence. And yet, he don't mind my silence. People tend to find it off-putting that I speak so slowly, painstakingly reviewing every word. But Ziri waits patiently, albeit with regular interruptions.

Whenever we're in physical proximity for longer than fifteen minutes, he'll bite me, then pretend like nowt happened, like a cat. He says things like "I want to live under your skin" like it's summat incredibly romantic. I love that we can exist together without having to do things all the time. Sometimes Ziri will come up to me, say "pay attention to me", and hold my hand or sit in my lap or find physical contact in whatever way possible. It were bizarre to me when we first started dating, that someone could ask for attention so explicitly, but now it's just one of the many things I love about him.

He can also be cruel when he wants to be. He knows how to love people so effortlessly which means he also knows exactly where to cut for the most damage. Most of the time, it's when he's manic or during meltdowns so he don't want to be and I know he don't mean it, but that don't make it hurt any less.

It's worth it, though. There are few people in the world who love like Ziri. Simply put, he's home.

            I kick my shoes off when I get inside. I used to take much better care of my things before Ziri, but I'm late — an hour and a half late and my WhatsApp message is still on delivered. Ziri lies in a child's pose diagonally at the centre of the bed, his forehead pressed against the duvet.

'I'm sorry I'm late. Eloise asked me to help out a bit — I didn't think it'd be so long.' I climb onto the edge of the bed so his head is between my knees but Ziri don't acknowledge me. I shouldn't've agreed to overtime but what were I meant to say, sorry, I'm having sex with my boyfriend tonight? 'I did text you, like.'

Ziri peels his face from the bed. His eyes are unfocused until he picks up his phone to check the time. 'It's calm, I ain't even notice. I've been panickin.' He drops his head back to the mattress.

With a deep exhale, I take in the bedroom. It's illuminated entirely by two dozen electric tealights. 'What's all this?'

'I wanted it to be romantic but candles are a fire hazard so I got these LED ones.' Ziri's voice muffles against the sheets. 'I also bought you flowers but then I thought it was weird so I threw them away.'

'But I love flowers.'

'I know. That's why I bought them, innit.''

'But you threw them away.'

'They're in the bin if you still want em.' He pushes himself up and scowls at the room. 'Is it too much? Yeah. Let's get rid of em.' He seizes a tealight from the nightstand and turns it over but I grab it before he can flick the switch.

I place it back on The Farthest Shore. 'I like them.'

Hands empty, Ziri fidgets with his cross necklace as he scans me up and down. 'I'm nervous,' he admits after a moment. 'I've been going mental all day. Couldn't even focus at work.

'What if I don't know how to do anythin well?' he whines. 'I've never seen porn. What if there's some vital information that I'm supposed to know, that you think I know, but I don't know, and you do know? And I'm circumcised and you're not and according to the internet, there's a seventy-five per cent loss of sensation from circumcision. Seventy-five per cent! What if I can't feel anythin? Are we supposed to orgasm at the same time? They always do that in movies. How do you schedule that? What if you cum first and I take forever and you think it's cause I'm not attracted to you but actually is just because Islam?

'You'll break up with me and I have to move back in with my parents and you move back in with your mum except they're neighbours, Miles. So we'll be neighbours! We'll have to see each other every day and it'll be so awkward. I'll get bare depressed and never leave my room and get sacked and probably kill myself. Properly this time.'

I grab his face before he can flop over again. He pouts but don't struggle. 'Let's agree that if we break up, only one of us is allowed to move back in with our parents. We'll flip a coin.'

'Oh... Yeah. Okay. That's a good idea.'

Humming, I shuffle closer to him. 'I'm gonna kiss you now.' Ziri's cheeks burn under my palms.

I'm slow to lean forward and slower to find his lips. The kiss is lazy and just as I think that I'd gladly spend hours like this, Ziri's hands drift to the back of my neck and pull my mouth firmly against his. Hunger ignites.

I grab his hips and slide him onto his back, swallowing the gasp that escapes him. Since we're still diagonally on the bed, his knees bend over the edge with his feet on the ground which leaves me to straddle his lap. Ziri clings to my shoulders as I kiss his jaw. His hips buck and grind in desperate search for contact.

This is the part where we normally tap out like in a wrestling match and move to opposite sides of the bed or, if necessary, into separate rooms to take care of ourselves. But not tonight. Tonight, I push up his shirt to expose his stomach, covered in soft hair like peach fuzz. Tonight, I kiss him hard as I shove his skirt down.

Ziri snaps out of his pleasure, nearly headbutting me. 'Wait, I'm not wearing sexy underwear.'

I sit back. 'What underwear that you own would you describe with the adjective "sexy"?' I have to pause between every other word to wrestle back laughter.

'Well, none of em. But somethin better than a big Paul Frank on my bum.'

I trace the elastic waistband with my thumbs. 'I think these are reet sexy.' I kiss him again. 'You're ridiculous,' I whisper against his mouth. 'I love you.'

He starts a response but I latch my lips to his neck and it turns into an enthralling sigh. I knew it would feel good to touch him after five years but this is beyond my imagination — and imagining, I've done plenty of. My brain rewires to the sole directive of drawing that very sound out of him as if it's sustenance. So I do. Over and over until it blends into one moan.

Ziri's hands slide under my Amazon t-shirt and press through the cushion of fat on my stomach to meet firm muscle. He's desperate to touch every bit of skin. His hands roam from my chest to my shoulders and back again. 'You're so fit, mashallah.'

I grin into his neck. 'I'll give ya a ride in't forklift sometime.'

'I know you think I'm jokin but I ain't. My caveman brain is goin man has tool for heavy lifting, secure the tool for heavy lifting.' He says this as he undoes the button and zipper of my trousers. Ziri tries to push them off but, with my legs bent, they don't go far.

I clamber backwards off the bed to kick them off except they're rather tight and my ankles get tangled.

Ziri watched me, amused. 'See, this why you should wear skirts. So much easier.'

The polaroid burning in my grandparents' grate flashes behind my eyes. I cram it back into the basement.

'These are my work uniform.' I toss my t-shirt on the floor only to halt at the sight of my stomach. I tighten my abdomen, then let go again. 'D'you think I've gained weight?'

'Don't know, don't care. We don't own a scale for a reason.'

'I just... I didn't look like this when we met.'

'Someone phone the BBC!' He moves his hand in front of him as if reading a billboard headline. 'Man, aged twenty-three, no longer has the body of an eighteen-year-old boy. You'll make national news, babes.'

'It don't bother you?'

'Does it bother you that my left pinkie is crooked after I broke it? No. Bodies change.' He moves so that he's lying on the bed the right way and grabs a scrunchie from the nightstand, tying his braids into a loose knot at the base of his neck. 'Besides, I prefer you like this,' he says, looking me over without bothering to hide his lust. 'You could probably do fifty press-ups with me on your back. You couldn't've done one when we were eighteen. Real men drive forklifts, press-up their boyfriends, and cry to Pokémon. Now come touch my dick, please.'

I climb back on the bed, position myself between his legs, and kiss him again. Propped up against the pillows, this position makes it much easier to worship his skin. Ziri traces the mangosteen tattoo on my left hip. Then, I lick his nipple and he clings onto my love handles as if a void has opened under him. He exhales a stream of delicate moans until I palm him through his briefs and his breath cuts off. He moves his hands lower, then back up. Then dips his fingers into the waistband of my boxers.

With no warning, I plummet.

It's the same sensation as when you wake up to the feeling of falling except I don't wake up and I don't stop falling. It's endless; there's so bottom to reach. The ocean gushes in my ears. No, my own breath. My breath? Yes, my breath.

The light cast by the LED candles becomes sticky. It clings to my skin. My heart patters pathetically. Ziri's lips move and I stare at them for some fragment of time I have no hope of identifying before I realise he's speaking. I can't hear owt. Just the raspy breaths that must come from my own mouth. I'm only vaguely aware of his hands on my shoulders when he pushes me back until I'm sitting on my heels.

'I dunno what's happening.' I feel the voice leave my throat though I don't recognise it. 'I can't feel owt.'

'It's okay, hayati. You're at home. You're safe. Everythin's okay right now.' Ziri's voice echoes, rebounds around the walls of my skull so that I have to curl my hand into fists to stop the words from dispersing into syllables that fall out of order. 'It's just us here. No one's gonna hurt you.'

It don't make sense. Why would anyone hurt me?

Ziri picks up my trousers and digs around the pockets until he finds my keys. He offers them to me. 'Can you tell what all these are for?'

'Why?'

'Please.'

I stare at the bundle in my palm. Who came up with the saying to know summat as well as the palm of your hand? Cause I don't know these palms at all. I shake the thought out of my head and start to name the keys: car, flat, basement storage, Ziri's bike lock spare key, Má's, work main doors, work manager's office... Each key hauls my consciousness lower from the attic where it fled until my voice sounds normal, if a little hoarse.

I peel my eyes from the bundle to find Ziri's affixed to me. 'Sorry. I dunno what that were about.'

He hesitates. 'It was a panic attack.'

I almost scoff. 'I don't think so.'

'Well, between the two of us, I'm the expert.' He probably intends it as comedic relief but it comes out with a bite. Screwing his eyes shut, Ziri takes a breath and tries again. 'Panic attacks don't always involve like hyperventilatin and rollin round on the floor screamin just cause that's what I do.'

I'm not saying it were nowt, but panic attack? What have I got to panic about? Maybe I just got reet horny and my body went into overdrive. It could definitely happen after six years of fantasising about him.

If he sees the resistance on my face, Ziri don't try to change my mind. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have– I should've been more careful.' He cracks his knuckles in his lap. The sound makes me a little sick. What's he apologising for? 'Can I touch you?' When I nod, he caresses my cheek before he shuffles off the bed and grabs his robe from the hook on the door. 'I'm gonna make you some tea.'

I stare dully at the open doorway long after he disappears through it. The pressure against my ribs returns twice as strong. There's summat that's trying to get out of its cage.

            'You can talk about it if ever you want to.'

This is the third time Ziri tells me that tonight. He sits on the shut toilet lid, watching me brush my teeth like I might choke if he looks away.

I'm happy for the toothpaste frothing in my mouth because it saves me the burden of having to respond beyond a garbled aha. What does he want me to talk about?

Though he's still frowning, Ziri must realise his hypocrisy, that he always complains about being surveilled like this, because he leaves the bathroom. For what might be the first time in my life, I'm relieved to not have his eyes on me.

Until fear starts to creep up my spine.

I nudge the door open wider, listen to the rustle of sheets as he climbs into bed and unscrews his tub of lotion. But as soon as I resume brushing my teeth, the sounds get buried beneath the scrubbing and my heart rate accelerates. Every horror film I watched with Dominic, that Má would never have let me see, rises to the surface of my mind at once. I always had nightmares after. Do other people or am I just a coward?

I scan the bathroom frantically. I wish I had eyes at the back of my head so I could see the whole room at once; no one would be able to sneak up on me. And I know no one will, I know there's no one there. But panic crowds my senses.

My eyes fixate on the shower curtain. Ziri left it drawn halfway so that part of the bathtub is hidden from view. Gripping my toothbrush like a weapon and struggling against the urge to swallow the spearmint froth in my mouth, I approach the bath and rip back to the curtain.

There's nowt there. Of course, there's nowt, what the fuck were I expecting? For Michael Myers to be hiding in my shower?

There's summat rotten in my mouth. The flavour burns through the toothpaste. But I have to get back to Ziri so I spit out the foam and step outside with one wide step, ducking to avoid the mirror because I still can't shake the feeling of being watched.