Prologue

Frédérique woke up and turned off the alarm. 9.30. She stretched a little bit and managed to open her eyes. Then she released herself from the arms that surrounded her waist and rolled over to look at the man lying beside her.

She looked at his face buried in the pillows and left out a sigh. She caressed  his cheek with the back of her index finger, all the way from his cheekbone down to his jaw, biting her lower lip when she felt the resistance of his light stubble. She knew it took a while for him to actually get himself to wake and get up, so she just waited.

He barely opened his eyes without moving a hair, and battered his eyelids before his pupils adjusted to the bright daylight coming from the windows. She observed the whole process lying on her side, with her arm folded under her head. His dark blonde hair looked as if a grenade had exploded right in front of his face. He reluctantly pulled an arm from under the covers to scratch his eyes before being able to open them widely and raise his upper body, supporting it with his right arm. He looked puzzled, like a little baby bird, as if it was unnatural for him to be awake in the morning. He finally took his torso from under the covers and looked at her, his head hanging from his neck.

“Morning” he said, curving the corner of his lips just enough to let her know that he was conscious, as he extended his left arm to rest on her hips. With the palm of his hand he followed her curves softly up to where her arm started and then jumped to cup her face. He leaned over to kiss her, and she relished on the feel of his soft, warm lips. She took in his smell until her lungs were full. He smelled like a bread freshly taken out of the oven - warm, soft…and delicious. No.

“You need to leave”, she said with a neutral tone, before sitting on the edge of the bed and putting on a pair of sleeping shorts and a tanktop that lay on the floor. She silently padded to the kitchen to get the coffee machine started.

She covered herself with a long, broad sleeved wool jacket her mom had knitted for her and she always wore at home as a kind of robe. She returned with one steaming cup in each hand to find him standing against the wall next to the window. He was barefoot and his hair still all spiked up, even though it looked like he had attempted to tame it with his hands. She saw his profile as he looked through the window, probably still trying to wake up. She followed the line down from his forehead to his perfect nose, his lips, his chin, his Adam’s apple, his pecs and his flat stomach all the way to the waistline of his jeans…

Focus damnit. She picked his T shirt and turtleneck from the back of the armchair and handed them to him together with the cup of cofee, without saying a word or showing any kind of intention of coming near him.

He took them, had a sip of his coffee, then put it down on the vanity next to the bed and started to put his clothes on. He sat down on the armchair next to the window and finished putting his socks and boots on. She waited leaning on the door jamb, her face buried in the coffee cup, which she held with both hands.

“I better get going” he said in a low voice, she jumped a little - in the silence of the room, it sounded like screaming. She nodded and looked at the floor. She had “the wall” up, and he didn’t try to tear it down, after all, it made things easier for him, too. He swallowed a couple more gulps of coffee and headed for the door. He grabbed her waist, gave it a squeeze and kissed her flat on the cheek, heading for the door. She made a feeble attempt at following him, but only managed to turn her head to see the expression on his face as he stood there, half way through the door, one hand on the door knob.

As if they were speaking telepathically, she answered, anguish in her voice:

“Jon, don’t. Please…just go”. She turned her eyes back to the empty space in front of her.

A deep sigh and the sound of a door closing followed.