Work Text:
The overlap between moving to the night shift and starting to sleep with Jack is a blurry line that neither of them can pinpoint. However hard they try—perhaps because they barely try at all—neither of them can remember which came first. Whilst the oldest dilemma in the world: which came first, the chicken or the egg? has a clear answer derived from evolutionary biology and species, this is a dilemma in which no one seems able to establish clearly, which of the two events should be considered the cause, and which the effect.
And yet, when Samira moves in barely three months after the thing, the before and after of whichever came first, it comes as no surprise to anyone.
Except maybe to Samira.
First comes the boiler.
It gives its last kick on a Wednesday evening, after a 12hour day shift—her legs a bundle of muscles working together to allow her to move just enough to keep functioning as a more or less human being until she gets home. She learns it the hard way when she steps into the shower, keen on washing away the long day and her sweaty greasy hair that has been plastered to the nape of her neck for hours, just for an icy bucket of water to glide all over her body.
What follows is some cursing, screaming, and some more cursing before she gets out.
Trembling, and with her thick bathrobe engulfing her, she strides with short but careful steps (the last thing she needs is to slip and crack her head open), to the ‘mechanical closet’. That’s how the old guy from the renting agency, with his big moustache and a waistcoat, had described it to her when he showed her the apartment. It soon became the everything closet.
There is a flashing triangle with a loud exclamation mark on the little led screen. She is not an engineer, wouldn’t know the first thing about boilers, but she reasons it is fair to assume she won’t be able to take a hot shower before going to bed tonight.
Samira (9:31pm)
No hot shower for this girl :(
Boiler bailed badly on me
Look at me alliterating tho!
He doesn’t text her back, but her phone starts ringing in her hand before she can even lock it. “Pack a bag, I’ll be there in 15 minutes,” he says as soon as she picks up. “I can have a look at it tomorrow.”
Samira lets the words hang between them. They were regularly doing many things in Jack’s bed, but sleeping wasn’t one of them. When the shifts allow them, she comes over to his place—the doorman even knows her name by now, which still leaves her a fuzzy feeling in her stomach—but she never sticks around long enough to take a shower. Let alone stay the night. They fuck, they come–Samira multiple times–and then she leaves. It’s uncomplicated, this way.
Or that is what she tells herself. The imaginary distance she created, dotted lines that reinforce her notion of safety. She won't slip and fall in the abyss of feelings if she stays far away enough. Every time she steps out of his apartment, her gait is a little more uncertain than before—she starts to stagger, and the dotted lines on the ground are less defined.
“I don’t want to intrude—and, well I can drive anyway.”
She can hear the car engine spurring to life from the other side of the line, the involuntary curl of her lips are an omen.
“How can you intrude if I’m offering?
*
If Jack is suddenly too busy to get to her apartment the next day, it would just be a coincidence, and if he waited too long—three whole days before ordering online whatever technical piece is in need of being replaced—he doesn’t read too much into it.
When two days later Samira steps out of their his bedroom wearing a crumpled white shirt that reaches her knees and hasn’t seen the light of day in a decade, he thinks it may just drive him to an early grave.
And if Samira feels a warm, yellow sensation blossoming inside her body, spreading from her fingertips, when she realizes that Jack has cooked her a full meal for her to bring to work while she was in the shower and decides, the following days, not to enquire about the state of the boiler, well, that doesn’t hurt anyone.
She may feel extremely feral when one night, in bed and completely spent, she tilts her iPad toward him, to show him an article about Longitudinal trajectory of plasma p-tau217 in cognitively unimpaired subjects, and he heedless responds: “Wait, let me get my readers on.”
She rides him harder than ever before, until her legs ache and shake.
*
She finds herself sleeping in her own bed again about a week later, but it’s no longer the only bed she sleeps in.
The change is almost imperceptible, but within a month there are facial cleansers in Jack’s bathroom, there's oat milk in his fridge, books are starting to pile up on the nightstand on the other side of where he sleeps, and there are sea salt candles in his living room.
Samira almost doesn't want to sleep alone in her bed any longer.
(Her bedsheets don't smell of wild wood orange blossom and sandalwood).
*
And then Samira slips, about a month later; her sprained ankle isn't serious, but as her attending—and also as something else they haven't quite diagnosed yet—Jack puts her on sick leave for three days. He offers her (though she has no way to refuse it, really) to stay at his place because it simply makes sense. His living room is bigger, his couch softer and she can spend the day there without being confined to stay in bed; and it’s closer to work, so the distance she’ll have to travel when she returns for her shift is significantly shorter.
When he helps her shower—carrying her in and out, and obtaining a tease on whether he can lift her or not—and combs her hair when she applies the leave-in conditioner, she cannot do anything but feed the butterflies in her stomach.
During her stay, he wouldn't let her lift a finger, even though she protested vehemently. But she is sitting on the countertop while he mixes the focaccia with butter, chickpeas, and savoy cabbage in the baking tray; his loose gray sweatpants hang down her legs that wrap tightly around his torso. The radio is playing in the living room; the melody drifts softly from the other room until something lights up in Samira’s eyes, and Jack is always attentive—always so attentive—gently pulls her down until her feet rest on his, and with his arms supporting her, before one slips at the nape of her neck, they swing slowly across the kitchen.
And it’s quiet, the realisation. How her orange tinted life would have made her run away only a few months ago. But now it feels right. It feels like pieces finally slotting into place.
That night, as his hips thrust forcefully inside her, Samira feels words bubbling up inside her chest. With every thrust, it’s as if they are pushed higher and higher. She doesn’t let them out; she doesn’t dare. But she hangs on it tight, won't let this slip away from her fingers.
*
They're sitting on the couch watching a documentary about sharks, and Jack is handfeeding her popcorn just because he can, when she gets a reminder email telling her she has to move out of her apartment in two weeks. Fuck. She completely forgot about it, and she says it out loud.
“I need to find a place by next week, and I need to plan for movers. Do you think maybe we can manage with your truck?”
Jack looks at her and smiles, fondly, because his girl is so smart that sometimes she needs a little nudge when it comes to the more mundane things. “Do you think that’s necessary?”
Her brow furrows a little. “I mean, my apartment is small but realistically everything won’t fit in a cab, and movers are expensive, but if you can’t help I can ask Parker or Trinity.”
He inhales deeply, his lips curved in a carved smile on his face. “Do you think it’s necessary for you to find another apartment?”
Samira’s eyes are unreadable but there is a soft shade of frustration behind them. “Well, Jack, I can’t sleep in one of the rooms in the abandoned wing at PTMC, can I?”
“No, sweetheart. But you could live here. You're here most days anyway.”
The silence isn’t heavy, it’s buzzing.
Jack clocks it in her eyes, the thought forming behind them. He doesn’t give it time to solidify on the tip of her tongue. “Acyually, I was just reading an article recently that argued you can establish whether or not you are already unofficially living together if the other person has at least 20 things at your place,” he says, handing her another popcorn, delivering it right to her lips.
“Is it, now?” Samira retorts, trying to fight a smile. “Well, I most certainly don’t have 20 things here.” She realises she already made up her mind, just wants to tease him a little and see his cheeks redden to prove his point.
“Okay,” he declares standing from the couch. “Let’s see”. He leaves the living room to walk to the bedroom and Samira can't help but follow him.
He opens the drawer of his dark oak nightstand. “Number one,” he says, picking up her favourite pink vibrator. Samira needs to bite the inside of her cheek not to lose her game straight away. He then moves to the second drawer of his dresser, the one that is unofficially hers. “Two bras and four pairs of knickers, 3 sets of scrubs, 2 pair—no, four pair of socks, ” he goes to grab the handle of the closet—
“That doesn’t count, of course I have clothes here, your apartment is closer to the hospital,” she says, a playful look in her eyes. “It just makes sense.”
The look in his eyes is challenging, but playful too.
“You know what? I’m feeling benevolent so I will give you that. I know I’m right anyway.” She so wants to kiss away the cheeky smirk on his lips.
“Let’s move to the bathroom then.” With his glasses in his right hand, he points to at least 5 different products of skin care. She didn't even realise until now she had so many products to begin with. “What is it now then, six? And your slippers, your bathrobe, your hair dryer, your shampoo, and conditioner. That is already ten.” He says with a proud smile on his face.
“Fifteen,” pointing at the pads and paracetamol she keeps for her period, her toothbrush, her nasal spray, and a pack of razors. She's surprised that he doesn't count them one by one. “Sixteen,” when back in the living room he picks up her phone charger. The movement makes his eye twich a little, and instinctively, she looks at his leg. He shakes his head and stubbornly continues his crusade.
“Should we go to the kitchen and count all your favourite snacks?” He asks cockily. Her heart swells three sizes, and there is a chuckle that escapes because of it.
“Those definitely don’t count because you usually buy them for me!” Her cheeks are starting to hurt for how much she is smiling.
“Mhh, should we then go back to the bedroom and count all your books, candles, jewellery and—?” She puts him out of his misery and grabs his face to kiss him. Neither of them can’t stop smiling.
“So I guess I’m moving in,” she says, bopping his nose, when they come up for air, “You know, if the article says so.”