I don't sleep. Not really. I drift in and out, the sheets tangled around my legs, his scent still caught in my hair. Every time I close my eyes I feel his hands on me, his mouth, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. I curl onto my side and press my thighs together, but it only makes it worse.

At some point the caravan starts to stir. Ben's voice first — loud, asking about breakfast. Lily's cry, sharp and insistent. The creak of the main bedroom door. Emma's footsteps in the narrow hallway.

I lie still, eyes open, watching the grey morning light seep through the thin curtains. My throat is tight. I count to ten, then twenty, then I push the blanket off and sit up.

I pull on my dressing gown and pad to the bathroom. The mirror shows me what I expected — dark circles, tangled hair, lips still swollen. I look like a woman who has been touched. I look like a woman who wants to be touched again.

I splash cold water on my face. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. I brush my teeth and scrape my hair into a bun, and when I walk into the kitchen Emma is already there, pouring cereal into bowls, and Bradley is standing at the counter with a mug of tea.

He doesn't look at me. Neither do I. But the air between us is thick with it — the memory, the secret, the shape of my body under his. I take the mug Emma hands me and sit at the small table, and I smile at Ben when he tells me about a crab he found on the beach yesterday, and I answer Lily's babbling with a coo I don't feel, and I do it all without missing a beat.

That's what I do. That's what I've always done. I smile and I nod and I pass the milk, and no one sees the crack.

But Bradley sees. I catch his gaze once — just a flicker, a fraction of a second — and in it I see everything. Hunger. Recognition. The same ache I'm carrying.

He looks away first. He always does. He has more practice.

The morning drags. Emma suggests a walk to the beach. I say yes, of course I say yes, and I pull on jeans and a jumper and help bundle Lily into her coat while Bradley ties Ben's trainers. We walk in a loose group — Emma pushing Lily's buggy, Ben running ahead, Bradley and me a careful distance apart. The wind is sharp off the sea, and I wrap my arms around myself and try not to watch the way his hands grip the buggy handle when he takes over from Emma.

On the beach, Ben builds a sandcastle. Lily sits in the wet sand and pats it with chubby hands. Emma crouches beside her, taking photos. Bradley stands a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, staring at the horizon.

I walk over. Because I can. Because Emma's distracted, because Ben is shouting about a shell, because the wind is loud enough to cover my voice.

'I couldn't sleep,' I say, quiet, not looking at him.

'Neither could I.'

His voice is low, rough. I feel it in my chest.

'One more day,' I say, and I hear the note in my own words, the way I'm holding onto it.

He doesn't answer. But his hand brushes mine — just the backs of his fingers against my knuckles, there and gone. I feel it like a burn.

Emma calls something about lunch. I turn and walk back to her, and the space between my fingers is still electric.

That night, after the kids are in bed, we watch a film. Emma falls asleep on the sofa halfway through. Bradley and I sit at opposite ends, a whole cushion between us, and I feel every inch of that empty space like a shout. I want to reach across it. I want to pull him into the guest room and lock the door and forget the rest of the world exists. But Emma stirs, and I look away, and I go to bed alone.

The next morning I wake before everyone else. The caravan is silent, the light thin and grey. I slip into the bathroom and lock the door and stand under the shower, the water hot enough to sting, and I press my forehead against the cold tile and let myself remember.

His hands on my hips. His mouth on my neck. The sound he made when I touched him.

My hand drifts down my stomach, past the black lace of the bodysuit I put back on this morning. I press my palm against myself, hard, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The water drums against the shower floor. I close my eyes and I think of him — the weight of him, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room — and I let the pressure build until I'm trembling, until I have to brace one hand against the wall, and then I tip over the edge into the water, muffling the sound against my own shoulder.

I stand there for a long moment after, chest heaving, the water still hot on my back. I feel hollow and full all at once. I feel like I'm drowning and this is the only breath I get.

I finish my shower and dress and walk out to face another day of pretending.

The hours crawl. Lunch. A walk to the shop. Ben's endless energy. Lily's naps. Emma's chatter about the new rota at work. I nod and smile and answer when spoken to, and all the while I am counting down the hours until tomorrow morning, when Bradley will drive me to the station.

That evening, after the kids are asleep, Emma showers and Bradley finds me in the kitchen. Just for a minute. Just long enough for his hand to rest on my lower back as he reaches past me for a glass. Just long enough for me to feel the heat of him through my jumper, to catch the look in his eye before he steps away.

'Tomorrow,' he says. Not a question.

I nod. I don't trust my voice.

Emma comes back in, towelling her hair, and I smile at her and say goodnight and walk to the guest room and close the door.

I don't sleep. I pack my suitcase carefully, folding the black lace bodysuit and tucking it beneath my cardigans. I slide the receipt into my phone case. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall and I wait for morning.

It comes, eventually. Grey and damp and full of goodbye.

Breakfast is quick. Ben hugs me. Lily waves from Emma's hip. Emma kisses my cheek and tells me to text when I get home. I say I will, and I mean it, and I hate that I mean it because I am already lying to her with every breath.

Bradley picks up my bag. 'I'll take her to the station,' he says, and Emma nods, busy with Lily, already thinking about the day ahead.

We walk to the car in silence. He opens the passenger door for me and I get in, and the click of the seatbelt sounds like a lock closing.

The drive takes twenty minutes. The country roads curve past fields and hedgerows, past a pub with hanging baskets, past a garage with a queue of cars. Bradley drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearstick. I watch his hands. I think about them on my skin.

Neither of us speaks until we reach the station car park. He pulls into a space and cuts the engine, and the sudden quiet is loud.

'So,' he says, and he turns to look at me.

I turn to face him. His eyes are tired. Warm. Full of the same question I've been carrying for days.

I can't go back to Manchester and pretend this was a holiday fling. I can't go back to my life and my marriage and my carefully arranged lies and feel this burning inside me and pretend it's not there.

'I need more,' I say. The words come out before I can stop them, raw and honest. 'I can't — Bradley, I can't just go home and text you and wait for the next time the family happens to be in the same place. I need more than that.'

He looks at me for a long moment. His jaw works. Then he nods, slow.

'I know,' he says. 'I know.'

He runs a hand over his bald head, the way he does when he's thinking. Then he says, 'I can get away. For a day. I can say I've got a work thing — a training day, something in Birmingham. It's plausible. I do those sometimes.'

'A day,' I say, and the word feels huge.

'A full day. Just us. No family, no caravan, no rushing. Somewhere neutral. A hotel.'

My heart is hammering. 'A hotel.'

'Yes.' He holds my gaze. 'One day. We can — we can take our time. Do everything we didn't get to do here.'

I think about it. A full day. No thin walls. No kids. No Emma. Just a room and a lock on the door and the luxury of being able to be loud, to be slow, to explore every impulse without the clock ticking down to bedtime.

'I can call in sick,' I say. 'Sam won't question it. I never do.'

'Neither will Emma. She knows I've got a training thing coming up anyway — I can move it forward.'

He says it like it's simple. Like we do this all the time. But I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand grips the gearstick just a little too hard.

'When?' I ask.

'Next week? Thursday?'

I nod, already calculating. 'I can do Thursday. I just... I'll let Sam think I am at work but i will actually call in sick. He leaves before eight. I can take the train down and back in the same day.'

'I can meet you in Rochdale. That's near you'

'Rochdale.' I say the word like it's a promise. 'Yes. I can do that.'

He pulls out his phone. 'I'll text you the details. The hotel, the time. We'll get a room for the day — checkout's usually eleven, but I can sort a late one. We'll have from morning until whenever we need.'

I feel a smile tug at my mouth. It's the first real one in days. 'You've thought about this.'

'Of course I have.' His voice is low, rough. 'I've thought about nothing else.'

We look at each other. The train will be here soon. I can hear it in the distance, the rumble on the tracks.

'I should go.'

'I know.'

He gets out and opens the boot. He hands me my bag, and for a moment we stand there, in the car park, the wind tugging at my hair, and I want to kiss him. I want to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him until the train comes and goes and comes again. But I don't. I take my bag and I walk toward the station, and he follows a few steps behind, and when I reach the platform I turn and look at him.

He's standing by the car. Hands in his pockets. Watching me.

I lift my hand. A small wave. He nods, once, and then he gets back in the car.

The train pulls in. I find a seat by the window, and as the train pulls out of the station I watch his car pull out of the car park and disappear around a corner.

I lean my head against the glass and I feel it all — the ache of leaving, the heat of anticipation, the knot of guilt in my stomach. I'm going home to lie to my husband. I'm going to pretend nothing happened. And in six days, I'm getting on a train to Birmingham to spend a full day exploring everything I want with a man who is not my own.

The excitement is sharper than the guilt. It shouldn't be. But it is.