"It really takes a lot -especially in our line of work- for me to feel alive, but you do that for me, Vivienne."
When psychically gifted Vivienne Salvatore is forced to flee to London from her home up north, she stumbles upon a "prestigious" agency...
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There's a firm knock at the door and I stir awake. I keep my eyes shut, not wanting to wake, nudging closer to the warm form in my bed. There's another knock seconds later, slightly more aggressive this time, and I finally open my eyes.
Vivienne is here, right in front of me, lying with me in my bed. I try to ignore how my stomach jumps as I realise how close we are, her forehead resting against my chest, my head tucked above hers so my chin rests atop her head.
Our legs are entangled, and I have one arm draped over her waist while the other is tucked beneath my head, while she has one arm pulled to her chest and the other tucked beneath her head.
I can feel her warmth pressed against me, and smell her sweet aroma strong in my face: a mix of warm vanilla, cinnamon, and fresh rain. She hasn't fully woken, but the knocking at the door seems to be making her stir.
Whoever's knocking —George or Lucy—, I know neither of us will never hear the end of it if they catch us like this.
George has already started to pick up on it: shooting me knowing looks and nudging me every time we say something odd or hold eye contact for just slightly too long. I'm sure Lucy's done the same to Vivienne. If either of them find her and I in bed together...
But it's explainable! It's totally...totally platonic. Don't all friends sleep in each other's arms...?
I realise I only have two choices: wake Vivienne and spare us the teasing, or let Vivienne get the sleep she deserves and take the teasing.
It's an easy decision.
"Come in," I call out, gently covering Vivienne's ear with my hand in an attempt not to wake her. I carefully adjust myself to sit up, being sure not to disturb her slumber.
George walks in, tray in-hand, toward the desk. He puts the tray down, looks over at me, then sees Vivienne. He looks at her, looks at me, then raises his eyebrows and smirks.
"Don't start," I sigh sleepily.
"I didn't say anything," he teases. I shoot him a look, and he grins playfully. I nod to the food, George's signature ghormeh sabzi.
"Looks great," I say, a pinch of flattery as a last minute attempt to soften the hit coming my way.
"No, it doesn't," he says bluntly. "Looks like I cooked it in an active volcano."
"I'm sure it'll taste great," I say.
"Right," he grumbles. "Anyway, I've got the whole story now, and so does the rest of London."
