'You don't have to do that.'

I glance over my shoulder to find Joe in the bedroom doorway, watching me make her bed with a smile. Shrugging, I resume, fluffing up the final pillow before I rest her well-loved orangutan cuddly toy against it, looping his arm around the smiling and legged avocado. 'I like to.'

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm finally leaving Joe's flat. After we've both spent the weekend doing a sum total of nowt productive—if you don't count the orgasms—she decided to head to the library to work on her new Open University course and so we pull on our shoes and jackets together.

My body is numb though it's hard to tell whether that's the weed or the sex. Maybe we're both getting old. My tolerance for bud is definitely fucked—can your tolerance for sex drop from inactivity too? Because I used to be perfectly fine shagging someone every night of the week during my year at halls but now I'm dead spent after a weekend.

Which shouldn't by any means be taken to mean that I wouldn't go at it right now again if she wanted.

Because it's raining again (surprise surprise), Joe takes her umbrella with her. She has one of them trendy transparent ones, except it's also got rainbows and unicorns on it and is so small it must be from the kids' section.

'Do you want to borrow one?' Joe offers me another from what turns out to be her umbrella collection. There are different sizes too; the kind that fold in small enough to be carried in a bag, ones with hooked handles and others with straight ones.

I suppose it is the fundamental accessory for Brits; why not have one for every outfit?

I don't ever use them cause it's always too fucking windy for an umbrella to do any good, but I select her rainbow one now. If it turns out to be cripplingly awkward next time we meet, at least I'll have summat to break the ice with by returning it. The discomfort germinates the moment she shuts her door behind us. Our footsteps echo in the stairwell.

To both of our displeasure, her careculo neighbour is smoking beside the door as we exit, cramming himself against the brick though even so, his left sleeve is soaked by the rain.

He looks up from his phone and beams. 'Give us a smile then, love.'

Joe rushes past him as fast as she can, only opening her umbrella when her shoulders are already damp, while I linger only to say, as politely as I can, 'Please, leave her alone. I'm sure we can all just be civilised about it. She's only trying to live in peace.'

The benefit of the rain is that he don't follow, though it don't stop him from calling after us. 'You do realise you've a poof for a boyfriend, right?'

'I'm not her boyfriend.'

I watch my feet as I trail after Joe to the bus stop. Now that the lust that has been compacting in my brain over the past three months is no longer fogging my sight, it becomes unavoidable that I do in fact fancy her. Romantically. Don't get me wrong, the lust is definitely still there—stronger, if owt, now that I know what she tastes like. But the rain air disperses it enough for me to see through to the other feelings clouded behind it.

Reminder: Joe is in love with Tamsin. Reminder: Joe don't want my feelings.

Joe will have no use for whatever anaemic affection I manage to cultivate. Joe wants me to fuck her because I'm good at it so that she can get over her mental block and shag a bunch of strangers so that she can get into a relationship with someone who sure as fuck ain't me, someone who probably lives in London, someone who's cool and has wealthy loving parents.

I have no right to get all whingy because she won't give me what I want when what I want were never on the table—very clearly and explicitly were not on the table. Friendship is enough. Sex is enough. It'll be alright.

Sure, affection is budding in my chest but things don't grow without water and light, and Joe ain't gonna water it. We're casual. I promised her casual.

On the bus, we sit upstairs. The only other people there are a group of girls in the front seats. Joe watches the raindrops race each other down the window but her eyes are sharp. Lines dig between her knitted brows, her lips pursed.

'Are you alright?'

'Yes,' she says. 'Just didn't realise you'd be so appalled by someone calling you my boyfriend.'

Her stare sickles to me but the sharpness palls as soon as it does. Her voice drains of its previous passive aggression with a tremble. 'Why was that the most important thing to correct? He also called you a slur.'

Look at me go. Intelligence 100 yet again.

'No. I'm sorry.' I go to reach for her hand only to rethink and tangle my fingers in my lap. 'I'm not appalled by the thought of being your boyfriend at all, swear down. I thought you'd– I thought that's what you would've wanted me to say.'

I stick my gaze to hers even as it breaks a rib. The hurt saturating Joe's eyes turns them from cognac to summat flat. 'I-I-I don't have to... defend, like– He can say whatever he likes to me, I can't get angry. Not in front of people. I were only tryna– I thought that's what you would've wanted me to say. I'm sorry, Joe.'

Her eyes move between each of mine for a torturous second before summat clicks behind them. With a groan, she takes my hand. 'No, I'm sorry. It's not you I should be cross with. Are you okay?'

With Joe squeezing my hand, I can't massage my wrist and I rub it against my thigh instead. 'I'm alright.'

'There's no police. Nobody's watching.' She gives my hand another squeeze before she lets go. Slumping in her chair, she turns back to the window. 'He's just such a prick. Honestly, I want to move somewhere else just to be rid of him but I think my parents might disown me at that point.'

'Why?'

'I need to learn to act my age.'

I clench my jaw, glad her focus is elsewhere because who the fuck am I to give her parents flack? But the notion that Joe don't act her age is a load of bollocks. What, are twenty-six-year-olds not allowed to smile or summat? I suppose she won't be acting her age until she's got a private medical practice according to them, which is totally summat twenty-six-year-olds do, right?

I don't get the chance to filter my anger into summat more appropriate before Joe presses the stop button and gets up. I go to walk downstairs with her but once I've stood, she pulls me into a hug.

'Thanks for this weekend. I've not felt this well in ages.'

I stare at the road through the front window. That'll be the kush though. What've I got to do with that?

Joe smiles when she pulls away and I nearly kiss her goodbye but, thankfully, she turns around before I manage to make a fool of myself.

Once she has disappeared down the stairs, I hit my forehead against the stanchion. What is wrong with me? What about "casual" is not being processed right now? The weekend domesticity enchanted me too much. I've not cancelled out the chance that she's a fairy and this is all some fucking spell.

Dropping into my seat, I dig out my phone for the first time since Friday. Joe did luckily have a USB-C cable I could charge it with in case Cece needed summat but I've not actually looked at it beyond a quick glance through my notifications. Caleb has DMed me about seventy memes across different social medias. I backread the group chat and go through everyone's Instagram to like their photos from the party.

Just as I'm looking through my own gallery, a new notification drops in from Bumble: Kerensa sent you a message. I've not opened the app since September and the unread messages have piled into my inbox.

I tap it.

Kerensa: I see you like plants 🤩🪴 I just bought a new ficus! What's your favourite that you own?

This is the exact kind of message that would normally have me kicking my feet with joy, especially considering how handsome Kerensa is in xeir pictures. So why do it excite me about as much as the Grammarly monthly wrap-up emails I get and just never remember to unsubscribe from?

You: Hi Kerensa. Sorry, I'm actually not available anymore. But good luck.

Before I can see if xe's gonna get snide about the rejection, I uninstall the app.

Notes

Halls: University accommodation AKA dorms. Rarely in the UK do you have roommates (the rooms are much smaller than in the US) but you share a kitchen and living space. If you pay for an en suite, you have your own toilet, otherwise, that's also shared. I'm not sure what the average size is but I lived in one with five people and another one with seven people.

Careculo: (lit. 'ass face') Hispanic insult.