Rania Algafari never asked to be different, and when she escaped the war in Syria and moved to the UK, her only goal was to live her life in peace. Get up, go to work, avoid talking to the dead - that sort of thing.
But not everyone dies quietly, an...
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When I opened my eyes, slowly, it took me five seconds to work out I wasn't in my own bed. No, this mattress stretched on for miles, a king size compared to my single, a chocolate-brown duvet rather than my thrift-store floral. Matching furniture—two wardrobes and a chest of drawers in light wood. And a window. A window with a glimmer of moonlight shining through and illuminating the hand splayed across my stomach.
Another five seconds, and I realised who was in bed with me, and by extension, whose bed I must be in. Will's. His musky smell was a dead giveaway, but underneath that was a hint of smoke, and before I could freak out about being wrapped up in a man, the events of last night hit me like a rocket-propelled grenade. A punch to the gut that left me fighting for breath.
"Easy, easy."
Will's whispered words brushed over my ear, a veil of calm. I stopped struggling.
"Nothing happened," he said.
What? No, the acrid aroma clinging to my skin told me the fire was more than a dream.
"Everything happened, Will. Someone burned our home down."
"I meant between us." He lifted the corner of the duvet. "See? We're both still fully clothed. I know you hate people being close, but I couldn't bear to leave you alone."
Somebody had tried to kill us, and he was worried about sharing a bed? My sludgy brain pondered that for a minute. I suppose after what I'd said to him about hating a man's touch, it was sweet that his first thought should have been for my feelings. But that was Will all over—sweet. And his touch? It felt...comfortable. Like I could get used to waking up with him beside me.
And that thought scared me, not the heaviness of his arm.
I rolled away and sat up, squashing myself against the padded leather headboard, and the movement unleashed a tsunami of questions. Why did someone set fire to our flat? Who? How did I get here? The answers wouldn't come. I drew my legs up to my chest, hugging them close as I sifted through memories.
Will turned on the lamp on his bedside table and rolled over, propping his head up on one elbow.
"I won't ask if you're okay, because that's a dumb question. But what can I do to help?"
I burst into tears.
Will's muttered, "Shit," as he crawled up the bed barely registered, but his arm did as he wrapped it around my shoulders, tentatively, as though he was afraid I'd push him away.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," I whispered.
"What do you mean, what's wrong with you? You escaped from a burning building last night—crying's natural."
"You're not crying. And the last time it happened, I didn't cry."
"Last time? Tell me you haven't been firebombed before."
