I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE FUNNY | ✓

▬ 36: sugar

               'I'm wearin your shirt.' I ball up my XL Spice Girls t-shirt and throw it at Miles. He's barely on his feet but catches it with ease. 'You can have mine.'

Without a word of complaint, he wrings water out of it and shakes it out.

Has every vein and notch in his arms always been this prominent or is it only the lighting? Tan lines circle his biceps and shoulders from the alternation of t-shirts to sleeveless tees. The palest skin, which is the colour of toast, teases from the edge of his soaked boxers where a sliver is entirely untouched by the sun.

His stomach doesn't cave into his ribs, muscles faint below the fat cushioning his abdomen. I look down at my own. Since the loss of baby fat, I've been "skin and bone" according to Iya, and it certainly hasn't improved since Edenfield. It took me five months to manage solid foods.

I snatch up his grey sleeveless tee and pull it on even though my braids are still wet and leave dark splotches at the shoulders where they drip water. Once I've spread out my trousers for drying, I sit on Sonia's previous spot and hug my knees. The plaster has slipped from my thumb, leaving me entirely without armour.

'You're not drunk, are you?' Failing to look at him, I ask this from my feet.

'I had one beer over two hours ago.' A chuckle intermingles with his words and I force one of my own. He expects me to understand.

'Right, calm. Sorry.' Unable to stop myself, I turn to him. 'That means no, right?'

He hums a confirmation.

Miles has sat on the edge of the platform and wades his feet in the lake. Water drips from stalactites of black hair when he hunches over.

'Is it bad that I didn't stay at the party?' My tone is too honest. I force a joke. 'According to popular opinion, I don't socialise enough.'

He shakes his head, not in response but in amused disbelief. 'I'm gonna tell you summat well important: real life don't have grades. You can't flunk. Do what you like.'

Right.

'And I know I'm a reet hypocrite for saying that. I never do what I like. I don't even know what I like. But you seem like you do so just... do what you like.'

I straighten my legs, my ankles poking over the edge, then cross them again. I can't flunk. I'm supposed to let everything explain itself to me instead of figuring it out. Life's not a maths equation.

Miles is not explaining anything, though. He's just sitting there, watching the water with a smile.

He's not looking at me. Does he regret it?

'Can we do that again?'

He looks up. I nod at the water though have no intention of swimming.

Miles rotates to reach for me before he gets a word out. His fingers already press to the back of my neck when he utters a single one: 'Please.'

Maybe it's the firm ground under us which alleviates the probability of drowning if we get too carried away or the bashfulness of firsts dealt with, but the kiss is hungry from the second it starts. He tastes of coconut lip balm and artificial orange, and from the very back of his mouth, the lingering freshness of Fisherman's Friends coalesces into the saccharose. Though I can't stand liquorice, from his tongue, the flavour is heaven.

I kiss all the sugar from him. I'll prevent cavities for the rest of your life if you let me.

When I stumble on top of him, I accidentally knock my front teeth into his and go to pull back to apologise. But Miles grips my face, grinning into the kiss. My cheeks burn under his palms