Thursday always arrived with a feeling Julie couldn’t quite name — something between anticipation and permission.
The apartment in Gateacre carried that feeling well. By evening, lamps were dimmed, music chosen carefully, every surface made inviting rather than tidy. Stevie moved through the space with quiet confidence, already halfway into the version of himself that only existed on nights like this. Julie watched him from the doorway, the sight stirring something warm and protective in her chest.
She loved how easily he trusted her. How he let her guide him — the fabrics, the colours, the subtle transformation that softened his edges and steadied his breath. When she adjusted the necklace at his throat, her fingers lingered just long enough for him to meet her eyes in the mirror.
“Thursday,” he said, smiling.
“Yes,” she replied. “Thursday.”
Sometimes others joined them. Sometimes they didn’t. What mattered was the shared understanding — that this night belonged to curiosity, not routine. They welcomed conversation that felt too intimate for daylight, laughter that slipped easily into silence, glances that suggested more than they promised.
Later, Allerton Road buzzed the way it always did — familiar, electric, forgiving. Julie hadn’t expected Adele to be there. Or maybe she had, somewhere deep down.
Adele hadn’t changed as much as Julie expected. Still sharp, still self-possessed, still carrying herself like she knew exactly the effect she had. When their eyes met across the room, it felt like a thread pulled suddenly tight.
“Julie,” Adele said when they finally stood face to face.
The name sounded different in her mouth. Slower. Weighted.
They hugged, but it wasn’t the casual kind — it lingered, bodies aligning just a little too well, memories brushing up against the present. Julie felt it immediately: the old familiarity flaring back to life, complicated and undeniable.
Stevie noticed too. He always did. He watched the way Adele’s hand stayed at the small of Julie’s back, the way Julie didn’t move it away.
The walk back to the apartment felt suspended in time. Adele spoke about nothing important — work, the city, a half-finished drink — but her glances kept returning to Julie, each one more deliberate than the last.
Inside, coats were shrugged off, shoes abandoned. Adele stood in the living room as if reacquainting herself with the space, eyes tracing the walls, the furniture, the life Julie had built.
“You’ve made it yours,” Adele said softly.
Julie stepped closer. “So have you,” she replied. Not accusatory. Just honest.
The air between them thickened. Adele’s confidence wavered for the first time, replaced by something rawer — need edged with restraint. Julie reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Adele’s ear, a gesture so familiar it almost hurt.
For a moment, Stevie faded into the background, content to let the tension unfold. This wasn’t about urgency. It was about gravity — two people drawn back into each other’s orbit.
Adele exhaled, eyes closing briefly, as if surrendering to something she’d been holding back all night.
“I didn’t come here by accident,” she admitted.
Julie smiled — slow, steady, unmistakable. She took Adele’s hand, feeling the tremor beneath the surface, and led her down the hallway.
The bedroom waited, quiet and expectant.
And when the door closed behind them, it wasn’t the sound of something beginning — it was the sound of something continuing, deeper and more intense than either of them had been willing to admit |
