The Friday night bleeds into Saturday morning before I'm ready for it. I wake before my alarm, lying still in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing beside me. The suitcase stands in the corner of the bedroom, packed and zipped, the black lace hidden beneath cardigans like a confession I haven't made yet.

Sam stirs when I sit up. "Train's at ten," he mumbles, squinting at the clock. "You want a lift to the station?"

I tell him no, it's fine, the walk will do me good. He nods and rolls over, and I dress in the bathroom with the door closed, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper, not looking at my reflection for too long.

He's already in the kitchen when I come down, making coffee. He hands me a mug without looking at me. The mug says World's Okayest Husband. He got it as a joke. I drink it, the heat burning my tongue. I deserve that.

"Have a good time," he says, kissing my cheek. "Send photos of the coast."

"I will."

The lie sits between us, invisible. I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

The train to Chichester takes four hours with a change at London. I sit by the window with a book in my lap that I don't read. The fields blur past — green and gold under a late May sky, the light stretching long and warm. My phone sits face-up on the little table. No messages from Bradley. We agreed to keep contact minimal until I was actually there. Too much risk of Emma seeing something.

But I want to text him. I want to tell him I'm on my way, that every mile closer makes my chest tighter, that I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway. I don't. I leave the phone where it is and watch the world slide by.

Chichester station is small and clean, the kind of station that smells of coffee and warm stone. I step off the train with my suitcase and scan the car park. Emma's car is pulled up near the entrance, a practical silver hatchback. She's standing beside it, waving, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy tail, tortoiseshell glasses catching the sun.

I wave back and walk toward her, and for a moment I'm just a sister coming on holiday. That's all she sees. That's all she'll ever see.

"Laura!" She hugs me, brief and warm. "Good journey?"

"Long," I say, and it's true, but not for the reasons she'd think.

"Tell me about it. Bradley's got the kids sorted at the caravan — Ben's been asking when you're coming all morning." She opens the boot and I lift my suitcase in. "Lily's been clingy. Teething, I think. You'll have to deal with the chaos."

"I don't mind."

She grins. "You say that now."

The drive to Selsey takes twenty minutes. Emma talks about work, about the night shifts, about how tired she is. I nod and make the right noises, and all I can think about is the caravan at the end of this road, and Bradley inside it, and the thing we haven't said out loud since I agreed to come.

The caravan park is busy for half term — a scattering of families, kids on bikes, the distant shriek of children from the arcade. Emma pulls up outside a cream-coloured caravan with a striped awning that catches the late-afternoon sun. The door is open. I can hear Ben's voice inside, high and excited, and then Bradley's low rumble in reply.

My stomach knots.

I get out of the car and grab my suitcase, and Emma's already at the door calling out. "We're here! Laura's here!"

Ben appears first, all elbows and knees and a dinosaur T-shirt stretched over his small frame. "Auntie Laura!" He barrels toward me and I drop my case to hug him, laughing. "Did you bring your camera? Dad says we're going to the beach tomorrow."

"I did," I say. "We'll take lots of pictures."

He races back inside. I straighten up, and Bradley is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, his beard a little wilder than last time. He looks tired. He looks good. He looks at me, and for half a second his eyes do something I can't read — relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"Laura." His voice is steady. Casual. "Get in. I'll make tea."

He steps aside, and I walk past him into the caravan, close enough to smell his skin — soap and something warmer, something that makes my fingers twitch.

The caravan is small and cosy, all cream cupboards and floral cushions. A kitchenette opens into a living area with a pull-out sofa. A narrow hallway leads to three doors — the main bedroom for Emma and Bradley, a smaller room for the kids with bunk beds, and at the end, the guest room. My room. A door I can close. A door that locks.

I carry my suitcase down the hallway and push open the door to the guest room. It's tiny — a single bed pressed against the wall, a built-in wardrobe, a small window with a net curtain looking out onto the awning. But it's mine. Four walls and a latch. I set my suitcase on the bed and stand there for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Emma appears in the doorway. "Small, but it's got a lock. Bradley insisted — said you'd want privacy after sharing a house with Sam." She shrugs. "I told him you're not that fussy, but you know what he's like."

I force a smile. "He's right. It's perfect."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back toward the kitchen. I close the door behind her and stand in the silence of my own small room, my hand resting on the latch, and I think about Bradley insisting I have a lock. What that means. What he's already planning.

The next few days pass in a blur of salt air and shrieking gulls. Monday is the arcade — Ben dragging us from machine to machine, a cascade of 2p coins and flashing lights. Emma wins a stuffed dolphin at the grabber. Lily falls asleep in her pushchair. Bradley stands beside me at the air hockey table, his arm brushing mine, and neither of us moves away.

Tuesday is the beach. The sky is bright, the breeze warm against our skin, and we leave our jackets in the car while Ben runs ahead, collecting shells. I take photos — of Ben, of Lily in Emma's arms, of the foam-white waves crashing against the shingle. Bradley is in the background of most of them, a shadow I keep catching.

And then I'm in the red swimsuit.

It's Tuesday afternoon, back at the caravan after the beach. The kids are sandy and tired, and Emma suggests we use the outdoor pool at the park before dinner. I dig the swimsuit from the bottom of my suitcase — a one-piece, deep red, cut high on the thighs and low at the chest. I bought it months ago, never wore it. I tell myself it's practical. I tell myself it's not for him.

The pool is warm and chlorinated, the sun still high, the air thick with steam. I swim laps for a few minutes, then float on my back, staring at the sky. Ben is doing handstands in the shallow end. Emma is in the corner with Lily, holding her in the water, singing softly.

Bradley is sitting on the edge, feet in the water, not swimming. Watching me.

I catch his eye and he doesn't look away. His gaze drops — to the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, the way the red fabric clings to my skin. I feel it like a touch, like his hand on me, and I have to turn my head to hide the flush that crawls up my neck.

When I look back, he's gone. I hear him in the changing room, the door swinging shut. I float a little longer, my heart hammering, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Wednesday is quieter. Emma says she's exhausted — the sun, the kids, the constant noise. She takes Lily for a nap in the afternoon, and Ben settles in with his Nintendo Switch on the sofa. Bradley and I are left in the small kitchen, drying dishes in silence.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice low, not looking at me.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He hands me a plate. I dry it. Neither of us says what we're really thinking.

That evening, we go to the clubhouse for entertainment. It's a low-key affair — a local band playing covers in the corner, families eating chips and drinking soft drinks, kids running between the tables. Ben is glued to the arcade machines. Lily is on Emma's lap, drowsy. I pick at a basket of chips I'm not hungry for.

"I'll get another round," Bradley says, standing. "Laura, help me carry?"

It's casual. It's nothing. Emma nods without looking up, focused on Lily. I stand and follow him to the bar.

The bar is crowded, the music loud enough to cover our voices. He orders two cokes and a pint of something dark, and while the barman pours, his hand finds mine under the counter. His fingers slide between mine. I go still.

"Don't look at me," he says, his mouth barely moving. "Just for a second."

I don't look. I stand there, his hand in mine, the worn wood of the bar under my other palm, and I breathe. Around us, people laugh and talk and live their ordinary lives. No one sees.

The barman puts the drinks down. Bradley lets go, picks up the glasses, and walks back toward the table. I pick up the pint and follow, my hand still warm where his was.

Back at the caravan, the night is winding down. Emma puts the kids to bed — Ben grumbling, Lily already asleep in her arms. I hear her voice through the thin walls, soft and soothing. Bradley pours himself a Morgan Spiced and Coke. I open a beer from the fridge, not really wanting it, needing something to do with my hands.

Emma comes out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "I'm knackered," she says. "Going to have a smoke and then crash."

She pulls on a jacket and steps outside. I hear the click of her lighter, the sigh of smoke leaving her lungs through the crack in the door.

Bradley and I are alone in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The only light is the dim glow from the kitchenette. He puts his glass down and flicks through his phone, and after a moment, music starts playing — low, something slow and bluesy, a man's voice crooning over a guitar. Something that sounds like night.

I stand by the kitchen counter, holding my beer, and I can feel every inch of space between us. I'm wearing a dress — navy blue, soft cotton, short-sleeved, hem above the knee. Nothing special. But I know what I want.

"I'm going to get changed," I say, and my voice comes out steady, which surprises me.

Bradley looks at me. "Okay."

I walk to my room at the end of the hall. I close the door behind me — don't lock it — and I stand for a moment in the dark, my hand on the latch. Then I open the door again, leaving it ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway falls across the bed.

I turn my back to the gap in the door, step out of my flats, and pull my dress over my head.

I'm in my bra and knickers — plain black cotton, functional. Not what I packed the lace for. I reach into my suitcase, find the floral wrap dress I wore on the first night — low-cut, soft fabric that moves. But I don't put it on yet. I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. I slide it down my arms and drop it into the open suitcase. Then I hook my thumbs into my knickers and push them down, step out of them, and leave them in the case too.

I tie the dress closed. The fabric falls soft against my skin, nothing underneath. I can feel the air on my thighs, my breasts loose and bare beneath the thin cotton. I turn around, walk back down the hallway, and step into the living room.

Bradley is watching me from the sofa, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes are dark. He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to the hallway behind me, to the open door of my room, and I see him understand.

The door clicks — Emma coming back in. I hear her stamp her feet on the mat. "Nice out there. Still warm." I smile at her, normal, as if I'm not standing here naked under a dress, as if my pulse isn't screaming.

"I'm turning in," I say. "Long day. Night, Em."

"Night, Laura." She yawns. "Brad, don't stay up too late."

"Five minutes," he says, his voice steady. "Just finishing this."

She disappears into the bedroom. The door closes. The lock clicks — I hear it, definite and final. She's locked herself in. She's not coming out again tonight.

I wait. The music plays on. Bradley drains his glass, stands, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him rinse the glass, set it in the rack. Then he turns, and his eyes find mine.

I don't speak. I cross the room and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to my room. The door is still ajar, exactly as I left it. I push it open, pull him inside, and close it behind us. The latch clicks soft and final.

There's no window in here, just the thin walls and the sound of Emma's muffled voice through the bedroom wall — she's on her phone, talking to someone, the cadence of a work call. Safe. Distracted. Not listening.

I turn to Bradley and he's already reaching for me, his hands finding my waist, sliding up my ribs. He feels the absence of fabric. His eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"I know."

I push him back onto the single bed. It creaks under his weight, the mattress narrow and thin. I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, the floral dress rucking up around my hips. He makes a sound — low, surprised, a rough exhale against my mouth.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet," I whisper. "We have to be quiet."

He grips my hips, pulls me forward, and I feel him hard against me through his jeans. I grind down, just once, and the friction makes my head go light. "Bradley—"

"Quiet," he says, echoing me, a dark smile breaking across his face. "You said quiet."

I kiss him, open-mouthed, desperate. His tongue meets mine, and I taste the spiced rum, the salt of his skin. His hands slide down my hips, bunching the dress at my waist, and then he's touching me — bare, wet, ready. I bite his lip to stop the moan that wants to tear out of my throat.

He works the zip of his jeans one-handed, quick and practiced. I lift up just enough for him to free himself, and then I'm reaching down, guiding him, and the moment he pushes inside me I lose all thought. I'm full. I'm stretched open. I'm exactly where I need to be.

His hands grip my hips, steadying me. I ride him, slow at first, the bed frame creaking beneath us. Every sound feels like a gunshot. I put my hand over his mouth, and he bites my palm, eyes locked on mine, half-feral. I bite my own lip until I taste copper.

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and then he's pulling the wrap of my dress loose, pushing the fabric aside until my breasts are free. He takes one in his mouth, and I arch into him, and I have to press my whole hand over my own mouth to stay silent.

I ride him harder. The rhythm is urgent, sloppy, perfect. I feel the tension building in my thighs, in my core, a wave that keeps cresting but not breaking. He's watching me, his hand still in my hair, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," he breathes. "Come quiet."

I slam my hand over his mouth and mine at once, and I come — a shuddering, silent release that shakes through me like a tremor. He follows, muffling his own groan against my hand, his hips bucking up into me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. The music still plays faintly from the living room. The caravan is quiet. From the main bedroom, Emma's voice has stopped — she's off the phone now, probably asleep.

I shift off him slowly, and he slips out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. I lie back on the narrow bed, the floral dress still twisted around me. Bradley lies beside me, half on top of me because the bed is too small for two people to lie side by side. His weight is warm, grounding. I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

"Your room," he says quietly, his voice rough. "You planned this."

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He kisses me — soft, lingering, different from the desperate kisses before. This one tastes like something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

He sits up, zips his jeans, and stands. At the door, he turns back. "Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Bradley."

He slips out, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, the creak of the main bedroom door opening and closing. Then silence.

I lie there in the dark, the dress still twisted around me, the fabric damp between my thighs. I don't move to change it. I don't want to. I want to feel this — the evidence, the proof of what I've done — for as long as it lasts before I have to wash it away.

I shift onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over me, and my hand brushes against something on the pillow. A folded piece of paper. I sit up, frowning, and unfold it in the dim light filtering through the curtain.

It's the receipt from the clubhouse bar. On the back, in his handwriting: One more day.

He must have slipped it under my pillow sometime today, before tonight, before any of this happened. While I was in the shower. While I was making tea. While Emma was watching. He knew. He planned this too.

I fold it once, twice, and slide it into the credit card slot of my phone case. Then I lie back down, pull the blanket to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the awning. I close my eyes and taste him on my lips, and I don't know how I'm going to look at Emma in the morning.

I know I will. I have to. That's what makes this work — my smile, my voice, my good mornings and pass the milk. All of it a lie I wear as easily as this dress.

And I'll wear it again tomorrow.The Friday night bleeds into Saturday morning before I'm ready for it. I wake before my alarm, lying still in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing beside me. The suitcase stands in the corner of the bedroom, packed and zipped, the black lace hidden beneath cardigans like a confession I haven't made yet.

Sam stirs when I sit up. "Train's at ten," he mumbles, squinting at the clock. "You want a lift to the station?"

I tell him no, it's fine, the walk will do me good. He nods and rolls over, and I dress in the bathroom with the door closed, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper, not looking at my reflection for too long.

He's already in the kitchen when I come down, making coffee. He hands me a mug without looking at me. The mug says World's Okayest Husband. He got it as a joke. I drink it, the heat burning my tongue. I deserve that.

"Have a good time," he says, kissing my cheek. "Send photos of the coast."

"I will."

The lie sits between us, invisible. I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

The train to Chichester takes four hours with a change at London. I sit by the window with a book in my lap that I don't read. The fields blur past — green and gold under a late May sky, the light stretching long and warm. My phone sits face-up on the little table. No messages from Bradley. We agreed to keep contact minimal until I was actually there. Too much risk of Emma seeing something.

But I want to text him. I want to tell him I'm on my way, that every mile closer makes my chest tighter, that I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway. I don't. I leave the phone where it is and watch the world slide by.

Chichester station is small and clean, the kind of station that smells of coffee and warm stone. I step off the train with my suitcase and scan the car park. Emma's car is pulled up near the entrance, a practical silver hatchback. She's standing beside it, waving, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy tail, tortoiseshell glasses catching the sun.

I wave back and walk toward her, and for a moment I'm just a sister coming on holiday. That's all she sees. That's all she'll ever see.

"Laura!" She hugs me, brief and warm. "Good journey?"

"Long," I say, and it's true, but not for the reasons she'd think.

"Tell me about it. Bradley's got the kids sorted at the caravan — Ben's been asking when you're coming all morning." She opens the boot and I lift my suitcase in. "Lily's been clingy. Teething, I think. You'll have to deal with the chaos."

"I don't mind."

She grins. "You say that now."

The drive to Selsey takes twenty minutes. Emma talks about work, about the night shifts, about how tired she is. I nod and make the right noises, and all I can think about is the caravan at the end of this road, and Bradley inside it, and the thing we haven't said out loud since I agreed to come.

The caravan park is busy for half term — a scattering of families, kids on bikes, the distant shriek of children from the arcade. Emma pulls up outside a cream-coloured caravan with a striped awning that catches the late-afternoon sun. The door is open. I can hear Ben's voice inside, high and excited, and then Bradley's low rumble in reply.

My stomach knots.

I get out of the car and grab my suitcase, and Emma's already at the door calling out. "We're here! Laura's here!"

Ben appears first, all elbows and knees and a dinosaur T-shirt stretched over his small frame. "Auntie Laura!" He barrels toward me and I drop my case to hug him, laughing. "Did you bring your camera? Dad says we're going to the beach tomorrow."

"I did," I say. "We'll take lots of pictures."

He races back inside. I straighten up, and Bradley is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, his beard a little wilder than last time. He looks tired. He looks good. He looks at me, and for half a second his eyes do something I can't read — relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"Laura." His voice is steady. Casual. "Get in. I'll make tea."

He steps aside, and I walk past him into the caravan, close enough to smell his skin — soap and something warmer, something that makes my fingers twitch.

The caravan is small and cosy, all cream cupboards and floral cushions. A kitchenette opens into a living area with a pull-out sofa. A narrow hallway leads to three doors — the main bedroom for Emma and Bradley, a smaller room for the kids with bunk beds, and at the end, the guest room. My room. A door I can close. A door that locks.

I carry my suitcase down the hallway and push open the door to the guest room. It's tiny — a single bed pressed against the wall, a built-in wardrobe, a small window with a net curtain looking out onto the awning. But it's mine. Four walls and a latch. I set my suitcase on the bed and stand there for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Emma appears in the doorway. "Small, but it's got a lock. Bradley insisted — said you'd want privacy after sharing a house with Sam." She shrugs. "I told him you're not that fussy, but you know what he's like."

I force a smile. "He's right. It's perfect."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back toward the kitchen. I close the door behind her and stand in the silence of my own small room, my hand resting on the latch, and I think about Bradley insisting I have a lock. What that means. What he's already planning.

The next few days pass in a blur of salt air and shrieking gulls. Monday is the arcade — Ben dragging us from machine to machine, a cascade of 2p coins and flashing lights. Emma wins a stuffed dolphin at the grabber. Lily falls asleep in her pushchair. Bradley stands beside me at the air hockey table, his arm brushing mine, and neither of us moves away.

Tuesday is the beach. The sky is bright, the breeze warm against our skin, and we leave our jackets in the car while Ben runs ahead, collecting shells. I take photos — of Ben, of Lily in Emma's arms, of the foam-white waves crashing against the shingle. Bradley is in the background of most of them, a shadow I keep catching.

And then I'm in the red swimsuit.

It's Tuesday afternoon, back at the caravan after the beach. The kids are sandy and tired, and Emma suggests we use the outdoor pool at the park before dinner. I dig the swimsuit from the bottom of my suitcase — a one-piece, deep red, cut high on the thighs and low at the chest. I bought it months ago, never wore it. I tell myself it's practical. I tell myself it's not for him.

The pool is warm and chlorinated, the sun still high, the air thick with steam. I swim laps for a few minutes, then float on my back, staring at the sky. Ben is doing handstands in the shallow end. Emma is in the corner with Lily, holding her in the water, singing softly.

Bradley is sitting on the edge, feet in the water, not swimming. Watching me.

I catch his eye and he doesn't look away. His gaze drops — to the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, the way the red fabric clings to my skin. I feel it like a touch, like his hand on me, and I have to turn my head to hide the flush that crawls up my neck.

When I look back, he's gone. I hear him in the changing room, the door swinging shut. I float a little longer, my heart hammering, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Wednesday is quieter. Emma says she's exhausted — the sun, the kids, the constant noise. She takes Lily for a nap in the afternoon, and Ben settles in with his Nintendo Switch on the sofa. Bradley and I are left in the small kitchen, drying dishes in silence.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice low, not looking at me.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He hands me a plate. I dry it. Neither of us says what we're really thinking.

That evening, we go to the clubhouse for entertainment. It's a low-key affair — a local band playing covers in the corner, families eating chips and drinking soft drinks, kids running between the tables. Ben is glued to the arcade machines. Lily is on Emma's lap, drowsy. I pick at a basket of chips I'm not hungry for.

"I'll get another round," Bradley says, standing. "Laura, help me carry?"

It's casual. It's nothing. Emma nods without looking up, focused on Lily. I stand and follow him to the bar.

The bar is crowded, the music loud enough to cover our voices. He orders two cokes and a pint of something dark, and while the barman pours, his hand finds mine under the counter. His fingers slide between mine. I go still.

"Don't look at me," he says, his mouth barely moving. "Just for a second."

I don't look. I stand there, his hand in mine, the worn wood of the bar under my other palm, and I breathe. Around us, people laugh and talk and live their ordinary lives. No one sees.

The barman puts the drinks down. Bradley lets go, picks up the glasses, and walks back toward the table. I pick up the pint and follow, my hand still warm where his was.

Back at the caravan, the night is winding down. Emma puts the kids to bed — Ben grumbling, Lily already asleep in her arms. I hear her voice through the thin walls, soft and soothing. Bradley pours himself a Morgan Spiced and Coke. I open a beer from the fridge, not really wanting it, needing something to do with my hands.

Emma comes out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "I'm knackered," she says. "Going to have a smoke and then crash."

She pulls on a jacket and steps outside. I hear the click of her lighter, the sigh of smoke leaving her lungs through the crack in the door.

Bradley and I are alone in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The only light is the dim glow from the kitchenette. He puts his glass down and flicks through his phone, and after a moment, music starts playing — low, something slow and bluesy, a man's voice crooning over a guitar. Something that sounds like night.

I stand by the kitchen counter, holding my beer, and I can feel every inch of space between us. I'm wearing a dress — navy blue, soft cotton, short-sleeved, hem above the knee. Nothing special. But I know what I want.

"I'm going to get changed," I say, and my voice comes out steady, which surprises me.

Bradley looks at me. "Okay."

I walk to my room at the end of the hall. I close the door behind me — don't lock it — and I stand for a moment in the dark, my hand on the latch. Then I open the door again, leaving it ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway falls across the bed.

I turn my back to the gap in the door, step out of my flats, and pull my dress over my head.

I'm in my bra and knickers — plain black cotton, functional. Not what I packed the lace for. I reach into my suitcase, find the floral wrap dress I wore on the first night — low-cut, soft fabric that moves. But I don't put it on yet. I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. I slide it down my arms and drop it into the open suitcase. Then I hook my thumbs into my knickers and push them down, step out of them, and leave them in the case too.

I tie the dress closed. The fabric falls soft against my skin, nothing underneath. I can feel the air on my thighs, my breasts loose and bare beneath the thin cotton. I turn around, walk back down the hallway, and step into the living room.

Bradley is watching me from the sofa, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes are dark. He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to the hallway behind me, to the open door of my room, and I see him understand.

The door clicks — Emma coming back in. I hear her stamp her feet on the mat. "Nice out there. Still warm." I smile at her, normal, as if I'm not standing here naked under a dress, as if my pulse isn't screaming.

"I'm turning in," I say. "Long day. Night, Em."

"Night, Laura." She yawns. "Brad, don't stay up too late."

"Five minutes," he says, his voice steady. "Just finishing this."

She disappears into the bedroom. The door closes. The lock clicks — I hear it, definite and final. She's locked herself in. She's not coming out again tonight.

I wait. The music plays on. Bradley drains his glass, stands, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him rinse the glass, set it in the rack. Then he turns, and his eyes find mine.

I don't speak. I cross the room and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to my room. The door is still ajar, exactly as I left it. I push it open, pull him inside, and close it behind us. The latch clicks soft and final.

There's no window in here, just the thin walls and the sound of Emma's muffled voice through the bedroom wall — she's on her phone, talking to someone, the cadence of a work call. Safe. Distracted. Not listening.

I turn to Bradley and he's already reaching for me, his hands finding my waist, sliding up my ribs. He feels the absence of fabric. His eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"I know."

I push him back onto the single bed. It creaks under his weight, the mattress narrow and thin. I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, the floral dress rucking up around my hips. He makes a sound — low, surprised, a rough exhale against my mouth.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet," I whisper. "We have to be quiet."

He grips my hips, pulls me forward, and I feel him hard against me through his jeans. I grind down, just once, and the friction makes my head go light. "Bradley—"

"Quiet," he says, echoing me, a dark smile breaking across his face. "You said quiet."

I kiss him, open-mouthed, desperate. His tongue meets mine, and I taste the spiced rum, the salt of his skin. His hands slide down my hips, bunching the dress at my waist, and then he's touching me — bare, wet, ready. I bite his lip to stop the moan that wants to tear out of my throat.

He works the zip of his jeans one-handed, quick and practiced. I lift up just enough for him to free himself, and then I'm reaching down, guiding him, and the moment he pushes inside me I lose all thought. I'm full. I'm stretched open. I'm exactly where I need to be.

His hands grip my hips, steadying me. I ride him, slow at first, the bed frame creaking beneath us. Every sound feels like a gunshot. I put my hand over his mouth, and he bites my palm, eyes locked on mine, half-feral. I bite my own lip until I taste copper.

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and then he's pulling the wrap of my dress loose, pushing the fabric aside until my breasts are free. He takes one in his mouth, and I arch into him, and I have to press my whole hand over my own mouth to stay silent.

I ride him harder. The rhythm is urgent, sloppy, perfect. I feel the tension building in my thighs, in my core, a wave that keeps cresting but not breaking. He's watching me, his hand still in my hair, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," he breathes. "Come quiet."

I slam my hand over his mouth and mine at once, and I come — a shuddering, silent release that shakes through me like a tremor. He follows, muffling his own groan against my hand, his hips bucking up into me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. The music still plays faintly from the living room. The caravan is quiet. From the main bedroom, Emma's voice has stopped — she's off the phone now, probably asleep.

I shift off him slowly, and he slips out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. I lie back on the narrow bed, the floral dress still twisted around me. Bradley lies beside me, half on top of me because the bed is too small for two people to lie side by side. His weight is warm, grounding. I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

"Your room," he says quietly, his voice rough. "You planned this."

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He kisses me — soft, lingering, different from the desperate kisses before. This one tastes like something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

He sits up, zips his jeans, and stands. At the door, he turns back. "Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Bradley."

He slips out, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, the creak of the main bedroom door opening and closing. Then silence.

I lie there in the dark, the dress still twisted around me, the fabric damp between my thighs. I don't move to change it. I don't want to. I want to feel this — the evidence, the proof of what I've done — for as long as it lasts before I have to wash it away.

I shift onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over me, and my hand brushes against something on the pillow. A folded piece of paper. I sit up, frowning, and unfold it in the dim light filtering through the curtain.

It's the receipt from the clubhouse bar. On the back, in his handwriting: One more day.

He must have slipped it under my pillow sometime today, before tonight, before any of this happened. While I was in the shower. While I was making tea. While Emma was watching. He knew. He planned this too.

I fold it once, twice, and slide it into the credit card slot of my phone case. Then I lie back down, pull the blanket to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the awning. I close my eyes and taste him on my lips, and I don't know how I'm going to look at Emma in the morning.

I know I will. I have to. That's what makes this work — my smile, my voice, my good mornings and pass the milk. All of it a lie I wear as easily as this dress.

And I'll wear it again tomorrow.The Friday night bleeds into Saturday morning before I'm ready for it. I wake before my alarm, lying still in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing beside me. The suitcase stands in the corner of the bedroom, packed and zipped, the black lace hidden beneath cardigans like a confession I haven't made yet.

Sam stirs when I sit up. "Train's at ten," he mumbles, squinting at the clock. "You want a lift to the station?"

I tell him no, it's fine, the walk will do me good. He nods and rolls over, and I dress in the bathroom with the door closed, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper, not looking at my reflection for too long.

He's already in the kitchen when I come down, making coffee. He hands me a mug without looking at me. The mug says World's Okayest Husband. He got it as a joke. I drink it, the heat burning my tongue. I deserve that.

"Have a good time," he says, kissing my cheek. "Send photos of the coast."

"I will."

The lie sits between us, invisible. I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

The train to Chichester takes four hours with a change at London. I sit by the window with a book in my lap that I don't read. The fields blur past — green and gold under a late May sky, the light stretching long and warm. My phone sits face-up on the little table. No messages from Bradley. We agreed to keep contact minimal until I was actually there. Too much risk of Emma seeing something.

But I want to text him. I want to tell him I'm on my way, that every mile closer makes my chest tighter, that I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway. I don't. I leave the phone where it is and watch the world slide by.

Chichester station is small and clean, the kind of station that smells of coffee and warm stone. I step off the train with my suitcase and scan the car park. Emma's car is pulled up near the entrance, a practical silver hatchback. She's standing beside it, waving, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy tail, tortoiseshell glasses catching the sun.

I wave back and walk toward her, and for a moment I'm just a sister coming on holiday. That's all she sees. That's all she'll ever see.

"Laura!" She hugs me, brief and warm. "Good journey?"

"Long," I say, and it's true, but not for the reasons she'd think.

"Tell me about it. Bradley's got the kids sorted at the caravan — Ben's been asking when you're coming all morning." She opens the boot and I lift my suitcase in. "Lily's been clingy. Teething, I think. You'll have to deal with the chaos."

"I don't mind."

She grins. "You say that now."

The drive to Selsey takes twenty minutes. Emma talks about work, about the night shifts, about how tired she is. I nod and make the right noises, and all I can think about is the caravan at the end of this road, and Bradley inside it, and the thing we haven't said out loud since I agreed to come.

The caravan park is busy for half term — a scattering of families, kids on bikes, the distant shriek of children from the arcade. Emma pulls up outside a cream-coloured caravan with a striped awning that catches the late-afternoon sun. The door is open. I can hear Ben's voice inside, high and excited, and then Bradley's low rumble in reply.

My stomach knots.

I get out of the car and grab my suitcase, and Emma's already at the door calling out. "We're here! Laura's here!"

Ben appears first, all elbows and knees and a dinosaur T-shirt stretched over his small frame. "Auntie Laura!" He barrels toward me and I drop my case to hug him, laughing. "Did you bring your camera? Dad says we're going to the beach tomorrow."

"I did," I say. "We'll take lots of pictures."

He races back inside. I straighten up, and Bradley is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, his beard a little wilder than last time. He looks tired. He looks good. He looks at me, and for half a second his eyes do something I can't read — relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"Laura." His voice is steady. Casual. "Get in. I'll make tea."

He steps aside, and I walk past him into the caravan, close enough to smell his skin — soap and something warmer, something that makes my fingers twitch.

The caravan is small and cosy, all cream cupboards and floral cushions. A kitchenette opens into a living area with a pull-out sofa. A narrow hallway leads to three doors — the main bedroom for Emma and Bradley, a smaller room for the kids with bunk beds, and at the end, the guest room. My room. A door I can close. A door that locks.

I carry my suitcase down the hallway and push open the door to the guest room. It's tiny — a single bed pressed against the wall, a built-in wardrobe, a small window with a net curtain looking out onto the awning. But it's mine. Four walls and a latch. I set my suitcase on the bed and stand there for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Emma appears in the doorway. "Small, but it's got a lock. Bradley insisted — said you'd want privacy after sharing a house with Sam." She shrugs. "I told him you're not that fussy, but you know what he's like."

I force a smile. "He's right. It's perfect."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back toward the kitchen. I close the door behind her and stand in the silence of my own small room, my hand resting on the latch, and I think about Bradley insisting I have a lock. What that means. What he's already planning.

The next few days pass in a blur of salt air and shrieking gulls. Monday is the arcade — Ben dragging us from machine to machine, a cascade of 2p coins and flashing lights. Emma wins a stuffed dolphin at the grabber. Lily falls asleep in her pushchair. Bradley stands beside me at the air hockey table, his arm brushing mine, and neither of us moves away.

Tuesday is the beach. The sky is bright, the breeze warm against our skin, and we leave our jackets in the car while Ben runs ahead, collecting shells. I take photos — of Ben, of Lily in Emma's arms, of the foam-white waves crashing against the shingle. Bradley is in the background of most of them, a shadow I keep catching.

And then I'm in the red swimsuit.

It's Tuesday afternoon, back at the caravan after the beach. The kids are sandy and tired, and Emma suggests we use the outdoor pool at the park before dinner. I dig the swimsuit from the bottom of my suitcase — a one-piece, deep red, cut high on the thighs and low at the chest. I bought it months ago, never wore it. I tell myself it's practical. I tell myself it's not for him.

The pool is warm and chlorinated, the sun still high, the air thick with steam. I swim laps for a few minutes, then float on my back, staring at the sky. Ben is doing handstands in the shallow end. Emma is in the corner with Lily, holding her in the water, singing softly.

Bradley is sitting on the edge, feet in the water, not swimming. Watching me.

I catch his eye and he doesn't look away. His gaze drops — to the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, the way the red fabric clings to my skin. I feel it like a touch, like his hand on me, and I have to turn my head to hide the flush that crawls up my neck.

When I look back, he's gone. I hear him in the changing room, the door swinging shut. I float a little longer, my heart hammering, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Wednesday is quieter. Emma says she's exhausted — the sun, the kids, the constant noise. She takes Lily for a nap in the afternoon, and Ben settles in with his Nintendo Switch on the sofa. Bradley and I are left in the small kitchen, drying dishes in silence.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice low, not looking at me.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He hands me a plate. I dry it. Neither of us says what we're really thinking.

That evening, we go to the clubhouse for entertainment. It's a low-key affair — a local band playing covers in the corner, families eating chips and drinking soft drinks, kids running between the tables. Ben is glued to the arcade machines. Lily is on Emma's lap, drowsy. I pick at a basket of chips I'm not hungry for.

"I'll get another round," Bradley says, standing. "Laura, help me carry?"

It's casual. It's nothing. Emma nods without looking up, focused on Lily. I stand and follow him to the bar.

The bar is crowded, the music loud enough to cover our voices. He orders two cokes and a pint of something dark, and while the barman pours, his hand finds mine under the counter. His fingers slide between mine. I go still.

"Don't look at me," he says, his mouth barely moving. "Just for a second."

I don't look. I stand there, his hand in mine, the worn wood of the bar under my other palm, and I breathe. Around us, people laugh and talk and live their ordinary lives. No one sees.

The barman puts the drinks down. Bradley lets go, picks up the glasses, and walks back toward the table. I pick up the pint and follow, my hand still warm where his was.

Back at the caravan, the night is winding down. Emma puts the kids to bed — Ben grumbling, Lily already asleep in her arms. I hear her voice through the thin walls, soft and soothing. Bradley pours himself a Morgan Spiced and Coke. I open a beer from the fridge, not really wanting it, needing something to do with my hands.

Emma comes out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "I'm knackered," she says. "Going to have a smoke and then crash."

She pulls on a jacket and steps outside. I hear the click of her lighter, the sigh of smoke leaving her lungs through the crack in the door.

Bradley and I are alone in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The only light is the dim glow from the kitchenette. He puts his glass down and flicks through his phone, and after a moment, music starts playing — low, something slow and bluesy, a man's voice crooning over a guitar. Something that sounds like night.

I stand by the kitchen counter, holding my beer, and I can feel every inch of space between us. I'm wearing a dress — navy blue, soft cotton, short-sleeved, hem above the knee. Nothing special. But I know what I want.

"I'm going to get changed," I say, and my voice comes out steady, which surprises me.

Bradley looks at me. "Okay."

I walk to my room at the end of the hall. I close the door behind me — don't lock it — and I stand for a moment in the dark, my hand on the latch. Then I open the door again, leaving it ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway falls across the bed.

I turn my back to the gap in the door, step out of my flats, and pull my dress over my head.

I'm in my bra and knickers — plain black cotton, functional. Not what I packed the lace for. I reach into my suitcase, find the floral wrap dress I wore on the first night — low-cut, soft fabric that moves. But I don't put it on yet. I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. I slide it down my arms and drop it into the open suitcase. Then I hook my thumbs into my knickers and push them down, step out of them, and leave them in the case too.

I tie the dress closed. The fabric falls soft against my skin, nothing underneath. I can feel the air on my thighs, my breasts loose and bare beneath the thin cotton. I turn around, walk back down the hallway, and step into the living room.

Bradley is watching me from the sofa, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes are dark. He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to the hallway behind me, to the open door of my room, and I see him understand.

The door clicks — Emma coming back in. I hear her stamp her feet on the mat. "Nice out there. Still warm." I smile at her, normal, as if I'm not standing here naked under a dress, as if my pulse isn't screaming.

"I'm turning in," I say. "Long day. Night, Em."

"Night, Laura." She yawns. "Brad, don't stay up too late."

"Five minutes," he says, his voice steady. "Just finishing this."

She disappears into the bedroom. The door closes. The lock clicks — I hear it, definite and final. She's locked herself in. She's not coming out again tonight.

I wait. The music plays on. Bradley drains his glass, stands, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him rinse the glass, set it in the rack. Then he turns, and his eyes find mine.

I don't speak. I cross the room and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to my room. The door is still ajar, exactly as I left it. I push it open, pull him inside, and close it behind us. The latch clicks soft and final.

There's no window in here, just the thin walls and the sound of Emma's muffled voice through the bedroom wall — she's on her phone, talking to someone, the cadence of a work call. Safe. Distracted. Not listening.

I turn to Bradley and he's already reaching for me, his hands finding my waist, sliding up my ribs. He feels the absence of fabric. His eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"I know."

I push him back onto the single bed. It creaks under his weight, the mattress narrow and thin. I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, the floral dress rucking up around my hips. He makes a sound — low, surprised, a rough exhale against my mouth.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet," I whisper. "We have to be quiet."

He grips my hips, pulls me forward, and I feel him hard against me through his jeans. I grind down, just once, and the friction makes my head go light. "Bradley—"

"Quiet," he says, echoing me, a dark smile breaking across his face. "You said quiet."

I kiss him, open-mouthed, desperate. His tongue meets mine, and I taste the spiced rum, the salt of his skin. His hands slide down my hips, bunching the dress at my waist, and then he's touching me — bare, wet, ready. I bite his lip to stop the moan that wants to tear out of my throat.

He works the zip of his jeans one-handed, quick and practiced. I lift up just enough for him to free himself, and then I'm reaching down, guiding him, and the moment he pushes inside me I lose all thought. I'm full. I'm stretched open. I'm exactly where I need to be.

His hands grip my hips, steadying me. I ride him, slow at first, the bed frame creaking beneath us. Every sound feels like a gunshot. I put my hand over his mouth, and he bites my palm, eyes locked on mine, half-feral. I bite my own lip until I taste copper.

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and then he's pulling the wrap of my dress loose, pushing the fabric aside until my breasts are free. He takes one in his mouth, and I arch into him, and I have to press my whole hand over my own mouth to stay silent.

I ride him harder. The rhythm is urgent, sloppy, perfect. I feel the tension building in my thighs, in my core, a wave that keeps cresting but not breaking. He's watching me, his hand still in my hair, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," he breathes. "Come quiet."

I slam my hand over his mouth and mine at once, and I come — a shuddering, silent release that shakes through me like a tremor. He follows, muffling his own groan against my hand, his hips bucking up into me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. The music still plays faintly from the living room. The caravan is quiet. From the main bedroom, Emma's voice has stopped — she's off the phone now, probably asleep.

I shift off him slowly, and he slips out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. I lie back on the narrow bed, the floral dress still twisted around me. Bradley lies beside me, half on top of me because the bed is too small for two people to lie side by side. His weight is warm, grounding. I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

"Your room," he says quietly, his voice rough. "You planned this."

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He kisses me — soft, lingering, different from the desperate kisses before. This one tastes like something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

He sits up, zips his jeans, and stands. At the door, he turns back. "Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Bradley."

He slips out, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, the creak of the main bedroom door opening and closing. Then silence.

I lie there in the dark, the dress still twisted around me, the fabric damp between my thighs. I don't move to change it. I don't want to. I want to feel this — the evidence, the proof of what I've done — for as long as it lasts before I have to wash it away.

I shift onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over me, and my hand brushes against something on the pillow. A folded piece of paper. I sit up, frowning, and unfold it in the dim light filtering through the curtain.

It's the receipt from the clubhouse bar. On the back, in his handwriting: One more day.

He must have slipped it under my pillow sometime today, before tonight, before any of this happened. While I was in the shower. While I was making tea. While Emma was watching. He knew. He planned this too.

I fold it once, twice, and slide it into the credit card slot of my phone case. Then I lie back down, pull the blanket to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the awning. I close my eyes and taste him on my lips, and I don't know how I'm going to look at Emma in the morning.

I know I will. I have to. That's what makes this work — my smile, my voice, my good mornings and pass the milk. All of it a lie I wear as easily as this dress.

And I'll wear it again tomorrow.The Friday night bleeds into Saturday morning before I'm ready for it. I wake before my alarm, lying still in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing beside me. The suitcase stands in the corner of the bedroom, packed and zipped, the black lace hidden beneath cardigans like a confession I haven't made yet.

Sam stirs when I sit up. "Train's at ten," he mumbles, squinting at the clock. "You want a lift to the station?"

I tell him no, it's fine, the walk will do me good. He nods and rolls over, and I dress in the bathroom with the door closed, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper, not looking at my reflection for too long.

He's already in the kitchen when I come down, making coffee. He hands me a mug without looking at me. The mug says World's Okayest Husband. He got it as a joke. I drink it, the heat burning my tongue. I deserve that.

"Have a good time," he says, kissing my cheek. "Send photos of the coast."

"I will."

The lie sits between us, invisible. I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

The train to Chichester takes four hours with a change at London. I sit by the window with a book in my lap that I don't read. The fields blur past — green and gold under a late May sky, the light stretching long and warm. My phone sits face-up on the little table. No messages from Bradley. We agreed to keep contact minimal until I was actually there. Too much risk of Emma seeing something.

But I want to text him. I want to tell him I'm on my way, that every mile closer makes my chest tighter, that I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway. I don't. I leave the phone where it is and watch the world slide by.

Chichester station is small and clean, the kind of station that smells of coffee and warm stone. I step off the train with my suitcase and scan the car park. Emma's car is pulled up near the entrance, a practical silver hatchback. She's standing beside it, waving, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy tail, tortoiseshell glasses catching the sun.

I wave back and walk toward her, and for a moment I'm just a sister coming on holiday. That's all she sees. That's all she'll ever see.

"Laura!" She hugs me, brief and warm. "Good journey?"

"Long," I say, and it's true, but not for the reasons she'd think.

"Tell me about it. Bradley's got the kids sorted at the caravan — Ben's been asking when you're coming all morning." She opens the boot and I lift my suitcase in. "Lily's been clingy. Teething, I think. You'll have to deal with the chaos."

"I don't mind."

She grins. "You say that now."

The drive to Selsey takes twenty minutes. Emma talks about work, about the night shifts, about how tired she is. I nod and make the right noises, and all I can think about is the caravan at the end of this road, and Bradley inside it, and the thing we haven't said out loud since I agreed to come.

The caravan park is busy for half term — a scattering of families, kids on bikes, the distant shriek of children from the arcade. Emma pulls up outside a cream-coloured caravan with a striped awning that catches the late-afternoon sun. The door is open. I can hear Ben's voice inside, high and excited, and then Bradley's low rumble in reply.

My stomach knots.

I get out of the car and grab my suitcase, and Emma's already at the door calling out. "We're here! Laura's here!"

Ben appears first, all elbows and knees and a dinosaur T-shirt stretched over his small frame. "Auntie Laura!" He barrels toward me and I drop my case to hug him, laughing. "Did you bring your camera? Dad says we're going to the beach tomorrow."

"I did," I say. "We'll take lots of pictures."

He races back inside. I straighten up, and Bradley is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, his beard a little wilder than last time. He looks tired. He looks good. He looks at me, and for half a second his eyes do something I can't read — relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"Laura." His voice is steady. Casual. "Get in. I'll make tea."

He steps aside, and I walk past him into the caravan, close enough to smell his skin — soap and something warmer, something that makes my fingers twitch.

The caravan is small and cosy, all cream cupboards and floral cushions. A kitchenette opens into a living area with a pull-out sofa. A narrow hallway leads to three doors — the main bedroom for Emma and Bradley, a smaller room for the kids with bunk beds, and at the end, the guest room. My room. A door I can close. A door that locks.

I carry my suitcase down the hallway and push open the door to the guest room. It's tiny — a single bed pressed against the wall, a built-in wardrobe, a small window with a net curtain looking out onto the awning. But it's mine. Four walls and a latch. I set my suitcase on the bed and stand there for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Emma appears in the doorway. "Small, but it's got a lock. Bradley insisted — said you'd want privacy after sharing a house with Sam." She shrugs. "I told him you're not that fussy, but you know what he's like."

I force a smile. "He's right. It's perfect."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back toward the kitchen. I close the door behind her and stand in the silence of my own small room, my hand resting on the latch, and I think about Bradley insisting I have a lock. What that means. What he's already planning.

The next few days pass in a blur of salt air and shrieking gulls. Monday is the arcade — Ben dragging us from machine to machine, a cascade of 2p coins and flashing lights. Emma wins a stuffed dolphin at the grabber. Lily falls asleep in her pushchair. Bradley stands beside me at the air hockey table, his arm brushing mine, and neither of us moves away.

Tuesday is the beach. The sky is bright, the breeze warm against our skin, and we leave our jackets in the car while Ben runs ahead, collecting shells. I take photos — of Ben, of Lily in Emma's arms, of the foam-white waves crashing against the shingle. Bradley is in the background of most of them, a shadow I keep catching.

And then I'm in the red swimsuit.

It's Tuesday afternoon, back at the caravan after the beach. The kids are sandy and tired, and Emma suggests we use the outdoor pool at the park before dinner. I dig the swimsuit from the bottom of my suitcase — a one-piece, deep red, cut high on the thighs and low at the chest. I bought it months ago, never wore it. I tell myself it's practical. I tell myself it's not for him.

The pool is warm and chlorinated, the sun still high, the air thick with steam. I swim laps for a few minutes, then float on my back, staring at the sky. Ben is doing handstands in the shallow end. Emma is in the corner with Lily, holding her in the water, singing softly.

Bradley is sitting on the edge, feet in the water, not swimming. Watching me.

I catch his eye and he doesn't look away. His gaze drops — to the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, the way the red fabric clings to my skin. I feel it like a touch, like his hand on me, and I have to turn my head to hide the flush that crawls up my neck.

When I look back, he's gone. I hear him in the changing room, the door swinging shut. I float a little longer, my heart hammering, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Wednesday is quieter. Emma says she's exhausted — the sun, the kids, the constant noise. She takes Lily for a nap in the afternoon, and Ben settles in with his Nintendo Switch on the sofa. Bradley and I are left in the small kitchen, drying dishes in silence.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice low, not looking at me.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He hands me a plate. I dry it. Neither of us says what we're really thinking.

That evening, we go to the clubhouse for entertainment. It's a low-key affair — a local band playing covers in the corner, families eating chips and drinking soft drinks, kids running between the tables. Ben is glued to the arcade machines. Lily is on Emma's lap, drowsy. I pick at a basket of chips I'm not hungry for.

"I'll get another round," Bradley says, standing. "Laura, help me carry?"

It's casual. It's nothing. Emma nods without looking up, focused on Lily. I stand and follow him to the bar.

The bar is crowded, the music loud enough to cover our voices. He orders two cokes and a pint of something dark, and while the barman pours, his hand finds mine under the counter. His fingers slide between mine. I go still.

"Don't look at me," he says, his mouth barely moving. "Just for a second."

I don't look. I stand there, his hand in mine, the worn wood of the bar under my other palm, and I breathe. Around us, people laugh and talk and live their ordinary lives. No one sees.

The barman puts the drinks down. Bradley lets go, picks up the glasses, and walks back toward the table. I pick up the pint and follow, my hand still warm where his was.

Back at the caravan, the night is winding down. Emma puts the kids to bed — Ben grumbling, Lily already asleep in her arms. I hear her voice through the thin walls, soft and soothing. Bradley pours himself a Morgan Spiced and Coke. I open a beer from the fridge, not really wanting it, needing something to do with my hands.

Emma comes out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "I'm knackered," she says. "Going to have a smoke and then crash."

She pulls on a jacket and steps outside. I hear the click of her lighter, the sigh of smoke leaving her lungs through the crack in the door.

Bradley and I are alone in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The only light is the dim glow from the kitchenette. He puts his glass down and flicks through his phone, and after a moment, music starts playing — low, something slow and bluesy, a man's voice crooning over a guitar. Something that sounds like night.

I stand by the kitchen counter, holding my beer, and I can feel every inch of space between us. I'm wearing a dress — navy blue, soft cotton, short-sleeved, hem above the knee. Nothing special. But I know what I want.

"I'm going to get changed," I say, and my voice comes out steady, which surprises me.

Bradley looks at me. "Okay."

I walk to my room at the end of the hall. I close the door behind me — don't lock it — and I stand for a moment in the dark, my hand on the latch. Then I open the door again, leaving it ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway falls across the bed.

I turn my back to the gap in the door, step out of my flats, and pull my dress over my head.

I'm in my bra and knickers — plain black cotton, functional. Not what I packed the lace for. I reach into my suitcase, find the floral wrap dress I wore on the first night — low-cut, soft fabric that moves. But I don't put it on yet. I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. I slide it down my arms and drop it into the open suitcase. Then I hook my thumbs into my knickers and push them down, step out of them, and leave them in the case too.

I tie the dress closed. The fabric falls soft against my skin, nothing underneath. I can feel the air on my thighs, my breasts loose and bare beneath the thin cotton. I turn around, walk back down the hallway, and step into the living room.

Bradley is watching me from the sofa, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes are dark. He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to the hallway behind me, to the open door of my room, and I see him understand.

The door clicks — Emma coming back in. I hear her stamp her feet on the mat. "Nice out there. Still warm." I smile at her, normal, as if I'm not standing here naked under a dress, as if my pulse isn't screaming.

"I'm turning in," I say. "Long day. Night, Em."

"Night, Laura." She yawns. "Brad, don't stay up too late."

"Five minutes," he says, his voice steady. "Just finishing this."

She disappears into the bedroom. The door closes. The lock clicks — I hear it, definite and final. She's locked herself in. She's not coming out again tonight.

I wait. The music plays on. Bradley drains his glass, stands, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him rinse the glass, set it in the rack. Then he turns, and his eyes find mine.

I don't speak. I cross the room and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to my room. The door is still ajar, exactly as I left it. I push it open, pull him inside, and close it behind us. The latch clicks soft and final.

There's no window in here, just the thin walls and the sound of Emma's muffled voice through the bedroom wall — she's on her phone, talking to someone, the cadence of a work call. Safe. Distracted. Not listening.

I turn to Bradley and he's already reaching for me, his hands finding my waist, sliding up my ribs. He feels the absence of fabric. His eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"I know."

I push him back onto the single bed. It creaks under his weight, the mattress narrow and thin. I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, the floral dress rucking up around my hips. He makes a sound — low, surprised, a rough exhale against my mouth.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet," I whisper. "We have to be quiet."

He grips my hips, pulls me forward, and I feel him hard against me through his jeans. I grind down, just once, and the friction makes my head go light. "Bradley—"

"Quiet," he says, echoing me, a dark smile breaking across his face. "You said quiet."

I kiss him, open-mouthed, desperate. His tongue meets mine, and I taste the spiced rum, the salt of his skin. His hands slide down my hips, bunching the dress at my waist, and then he's touching me — bare, wet, ready. I bite his lip to stop the moan that wants to tear out of my throat.

He works the zip of his jeans one-handed, quick and practiced. I lift up just enough for him to free himself, and then I'm reaching down, guiding him, and the moment he pushes inside me I lose all thought. I'm full. I'm stretched open. I'm exactly where I need to be.

His hands grip my hips, steadying me. I ride him, slow at first, the bed frame creaking beneath us. Every sound feels like a gunshot. I put my hand over his mouth, and he bites my palm, eyes locked on mine, half-feral. I bite my own lip until I taste copper.

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and then he's pulling the wrap of my dress loose, pushing the fabric aside until my breasts are free. He takes one in his mouth, and I arch into him, and I have to press my whole hand over my own mouth to stay silent.

I ride him harder. The rhythm is urgent, sloppy, perfect. I feel the tension building in my thighs, in my core, a wave that keeps cresting but not breaking. He's watching me, his hand still in my hair, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," he breathes. "Come quiet."

I slam my hand over his mouth and mine at once, and I come — a shuddering, silent release that shakes through me like a tremor. He follows, muffling his own groan against my hand, his hips bucking up into me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. The music still plays faintly from the living room. The caravan is quiet. From the main bedroom, Emma's voice has stopped — she's off the phone now, probably asleep.

I shift off him slowly, and he slips out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. I lie back on the narrow bed, the floral dress still twisted around me. Bradley lies beside me, half on top of me because the bed is too small for two people to lie side by side. His weight is warm, grounding. I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

"Your room," he says quietly, his voice rough. "You planned this."

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He kisses me — soft, lingering, different from the desperate kisses before. This one tastes like something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

He sits up, zips his jeans, and stands. At the door, he turns back. "Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Bradley."

He slips out, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, the creak of the main bedroom door opening and closing. Then silence.

I lie there in the dark, the dress still twisted around me, the fabric damp between my thighs. I don't move to change it. I don't want to. I want to feel this — the evidence, the proof of what I've done — for as long as it lasts before I have to wash it away.

I shift onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over me, and my hand brushes against something on the pillow. A folded piece of paper. I sit up, frowning, and unfold it in the dim light filtering through the curtain.

It's the receipt from the clubhouse bar. On the back, in his handwriting: One more day.

He must have slipped it under my pillow sometime today, before tonight, before any of this happened. While I was in the shower. While I was making tea. While Emma was watching. He knew. He planned this too.

I fold it once, twice, and slide it into the credit card slot of my phone case. Then I lie back down, pull the blanket to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the awning. I close my eyes and taste him on my lips, and I don't know how I'm going to look at Emma in the morning.

I know I will. I have to. That's what makes this work — my smile, my voice, my good mornings and pass the milk. All of it a lie I wear as easily as this dress.

And I'll wear it again tomorrow.The Friday night bleeds into Saturday morning before I'm ready for it. I wake before my alarm, lying still in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing beside me. The suitcase stands in the corner of the bedroom, packed and zipped, the black lace hidden beneath cardigans like a confession I haven't made yet.

Sam stirs when I sit up. "Train's at ten," he mumbles, squinting at the clock. "You want a lift to the station?"

I tell him no, it's fine, the walk will do me good. He nods and rolls over, and I dress in the bathroom with the door closed, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper, not looking at my reflection for too long.

He's already in the kitchen when I come down, making coffee. He hands me a mug without looking at me. The mug says World's Okayest Husband. He got it as a joke. I drink it, the heat burning my tongue. I deserve that.

"Have a good time," he says, kissing my cheek. "Send photos of the coast."

"I will."

The lie sits between us, invisible. I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

The train to Chichester takes four hours with a change at London. I sit by the window with a book in my lap that I don't read. The fields blur past — green and gold under a late May sky, the light stretching long and warm. My phone sits face-up on the little table. No messages from Bradley. We agreed to keep contact minimal until I was actually there. Too much risk of Emma seeing something.

But I want to text him. I want to tell him I'm on my way, that every mile closer makes my chest tighter, that I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway. I don't. I leave the phone where it is and watch the world slide by.

Chichester station is small and clean, the kind of station that smells of coffee and warm stone. I step off the train with my suitcase and scan the car park. Emma's car is pulled up near the entrance, a practical silver hatchback. She's standing beside it, waving, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy tail, tortoiseshell glasses catching the sun.

I wave back and walk toward her, and for a moment I'm just a sister coming on holiday. That's all she sees. That's all she'll ever see.

"Laura!" She hugs me, brief and warm. "Good journey?"

"Long," I say, and it's true, but not for the reasons she'd think.

"Tell me about it. Bradley's got the kids sorted at the caravan — Ben's been asking when you're coming all morning." She opens the boot and I lift my suitcase in. "Lily's been clingy. Teething, I think. You'll have to deal with the chaos."

"I don't mind."

She grins. "You say that now."

The drive to Selsey takes twenty minutes. Emma talks about work, about the night shifts, about how tired she is. I nod and make the right noises, and all I can think about is the caravan at the end of this road, and Bradley inside it, and the thing we haven't said out loud since I agreed to come.

The caravan park is busy for half term — a scattering of families, kids on bikes, the distant shriek of children from the arcade. Emma pulls up outside a cream-coloured caravan with a striped awning that catches the late-afternoon sun. The door is open. I can hear Ben's voice inside, high and excited, and then Bradley's low rumble in reply.

My stomach knots.

I get out of the car and grab my suitcase, and Emma's already at the door calling out. "We're here! Laura's here!"

Ben appears first, all elbows and knees and a dinosaur T-shirt stretched over his small frame. "Auntie Laura!" He barrels toward me and I drop my case to hug him, laughing. "Did you bring your camera? Dad says we're going to the beach tomorrow."

"I did," I say. "We'll take lots of pictures."

He races back inside. I straighten up, and Bradley is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, his beard a little wilder than last time. He looks tired. He looks good. He looks at me, and for half a second his eyes do something I can't read — relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"Laura." His voice is steady. Casual. "Get in. I'll make tea."

He steps aside, and I walk past him into the caravan, close enough to smell his skin — soap and something warmer, something that makes my fingers twitch.

The caravan is small and cosy, all cream cupboards and floral cushions. A kitchenette opens into a living area with a pull-out sofa. A narrow hallway leads to three doors — the main bedroom for Emma and Bradley, a smaller room for the kids with bunk beds, and at the end, the guest room. My room. A door I can close. A door that locks.

I carry my suitcase down the hallway and push open the door to the guest room. It's tiny — a single bed pressed against the wall, a built-in wardrobe, a small window with a net curtain looking out onto the awning. But it's mine. Four walls and a latch. I set my suitcase on the bed and stand there for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Emma appears in the doorway. "Small, but it's got a lock. Bradley insisted — said you'd want privacy after sharing a house with Sam." She shrugs. "I told him you're not that fussy, but you know what he's like."

I force a smile. "He's right. It's perfect."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back toward the kitchen. I close the door behind her and stand in the silence of my own small room, my hand resting on the latch, and I think about Bradley insisting I have a lock. What that means. What he's already planning.

The next few days pass in a blur of salt air and shrieking gulls. Monday is the arcade — Ben dragging us from machine to machine, a cascade of 2p coins and flashing lights. Emma wins a stuffed dolphin at the grabber. Lily falls asleep in her pushchair. Bradley stands beside me at the air hockey table, his arm brushing mine, and neither of us moves away.

Tuesday is the beach. The sky is bright, the breeze warm against our skin, and we leave our jackets in the car while Ben runs ahead, collecting shells. I take photos — of Ben, of Lily in Emma's arms, of the foam-white waves crashing against the shingle. Bradley is in the background of most of them, a shadow I keep catching.

And then I'm in the red swimsuit.

It's Tuesday afternoon, back at the caravan after the beach. The kids are sandy and tired, and Emma suggests we use the outdoor pool at the park before dinner. I dig the swimsuit from the bottom of my suitcase — a one-piece, deep red, cut high on the thighs and low at the chest. I bought it months ago, never wore it. I tell myself it's practical. I tell myself it's not for him.

The pool is warm and chlorinated, the sun still high, the air thick with steam. I swim laps for a few minutes, then float on my back, staring at the sky. Ben is doing handstands in the shallow end. Emma is in the corner with Lily, holding her in the water, singing softly.

Bradley is sitting on the edge, feet in the water, not swimming. Watching me.

I catch his eye and he doesn't look away. His gaze drops — to the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, the way the red fabric clings to my skin. I feel it like a touch, like his hand on me, and I have to turn my head to hide the flush that crawls up my neck.

When I look back, he's gone. I hear him in the changing room, the door swinging shut. I float a little longer, my heart hammering, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Wednesday is quieter. Emma says she's exhausted — the sun, the kids, the constant noise. She takes Lily for a nap in the afternoon, and Ben settles in with his Nintendo Switch on the sofa. Bradley and I are left in the small kitchen, drying dishes in silence.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice low, not looking at me.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He hands me a plate. I dry it. Neither of us says what we're really thinking.

That evening, we go to the clubhouse for entertainment. It's a low-key affair — a local band playing covers in the corner, families eating chips and drinking soft drinks, kids running between the tables. Ben is glued to the arcade machines. Lily is on Emma's lap, drowsy. I pick at a basket of chips I'm not hungry for.

"I'll get another round," Bradley says, standing. "Laura, help me carry?"

It's casual. It's nothing. Emma nods without looking up, focused on Lily. I stand and follow him to the bar.

The bar is crowded, the music loud enough to cover our voices. He orders two cokes and a pint of something dark, and while the barman pours, his hand finds mine under the counter. His fingers slide between mine. I go still.

"Don't look at me," he says, his mouth barely moving. "Just for a second."

I don't look. I stand there, his hand in mine, the worn wood of the bar under my other palm, and I breathe. Around us, people laugh and talk and live their ordinary lives. No one sees.

The barman puts the drinks down. Bradley lets go, picks up the glasses, and walks back toward the table. I pick up the pint and follow, my hand still warm where his was.

Back at the caravan, the night is winding down. Emma puts the kids to bed — Ben grumbling, Lily already asleep in her arms. I hear her voice through the thin walls, soft and soothing. Bradley pours himself a Morgan Spiced and Coke. I open a beer from the fridge, not really wanting it, needing something to do with my hands.

Emma comes out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "I'm knackered," she says. "Going to have a smoke and then crash."

She pulls on a jacket and steps outside. I hear the click of her lighter, the sigh of smoke leaving her lungs through the crack in the door.

Bradley and I are alone in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The only light is the dim glow from the kitchenette. He puts his glass down and flicks through his phone, and after a moment, music starts playing — low, something slow and bluesy, a man's voice crooning over a guitar. Something that sounds like night.

I stand by the kitchen counter, holding my beer, and I can feel every inch of space between us. I'm wearing a dress — navy blue, soft cotton, short-sleeved, hem above the knee. Nothing special. But I know what I want.

"I'm going to get changed," I say, and my voice comes out steady, which surprises me.

Bradley looks at me. "Okay."

I walk to my room at the end of the hall. I close the door behind me — don't lock it — and I stand for a moment in the dark, my hand on the latch. Then I open the door again, leaving it ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway falls across the bed.

I turn my back to the gap in the door, step out of my flats, and pull my dress over my head.

I'm in my bra and knickers — plain black cotton, functional. Not what I packed the lace for. I reach into my suitcase, find the floral wrap dress I wore on the first night — low-cut, soft fabric that moves. But I don't put it on yet. I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. I slide it down my arms and drop it into the open suitcase. Then I hook my thumbs into my knickers and push them down, step out of them, and leave them in the case too.

I tie the dress closed. The fabric falls soft against my skin, nothing underneath. I can feel the air on my thighs, my breasts loose and bare beneath the thin cotton. I turn around, walk back down the hallway, and step into the living room.

Bradley is watching me from the sofa, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes are dark. He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to the hallway behind me, to the open door of my room, and I see him understand.

The door clicks — Emma coming back in. I hear her stamp her feet on the mat. "Nice out there. Still warm." I smile at her, normal, as if I'm not standing here naked under a dress, as if my pulse isn't screaming.

"I'm turning in," I say. "Long day. Night, Em."

"Night, Laura." She yawns. "Brad, don't stay up too late."

"Five minutes," he says, his voice steady. "Just finishing this."

She disappears into the bedroom. The door closes. The lock clicks — I hear it, definite and final. She's locked herself in. She's not coming out again tonight.

I wait. The music plays on. Bradley drains his glass, stands, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him rinse the glass, set it in the rack. Then he turns, and his eyes find mine.

I don't speak. I cross the room and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to my room. The door is still ajar, exactly as I left it. I push it open, pull him inside, and close it behind us. The latch clicks soft and final.

There's no window in here, just the thin walls and the sound of Emma's muffled voice through the bedroom wall — she's on her phone, talking to someone, the cadence of a work call. Safe. Distracted. Not listening.

I turn to Bradley and he's already reaching for me, his hands finding my waist, sliding up my ribs. He feels the absence of fabric. His eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"I know."

I push him back onto the single bed. It creaks under his weight, the mattress narrow and thin. I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, the floral dress rucking up around my hips. He makes a sound — low, surprised, a rough exhale against my mouth.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet," I whisper. "We have to be quiet."

He grips my hips, pulls me forward, and I feel him hard against me through his jeans. I grind down, just once, and the friction makes my head go light. "Bradley—"

"Quiet," he says, echoing me, a dark smile breaking across his face. "You said quiet."

I kiss him, open-mouthed, desperate. His tongue meets mine, and I taste the spiced rum, the salt of his skin. His hands slide down my hips, bunching the dress at my waist, and then he's touching me — bare, wet, ready. I bite his lip to stop the moan that wants to tear out of my throat.

He works the zip of his jeans one-handed, quick and practiced. I lift up just enough for him to free himself, and then I'm reaching down, guiding him, and the moment he pushes inside me I lose all thought. I'm full. I'm stretched open. I'm exactly where I need to be.

His hands grip my hips, steadying me. I ride him, slow at first, the bed frame creaking beneath us. Every sound feels like a gunshot. I put my hand over his mouth, and he bites my palm, eyes locked on mine, half-feral. I bite my own lip until I taste copper.

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and then he's pulling the wrap of my dress loose, pushing the fabric aside until my breasts are free. He takes one in his mouth, and I arch into him, and I have to press my whole hand over my own mouth to stay silent.

I ride him harder. The rhythm is urgent, sloppy, perfect. I feel the tension building in my thighs, in my core, a wave that keeps cresting but not breaking. He's watching me, his hand still in my hair, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," he breathes. "Come quiet."

I slam my hand over his mouth and mine at once, and I come — a shuddering, silent release that shakes through me like a tremor. He follows, muffling his own groan against my hand, his hips bucking up into me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. The music still plays faintly from the living room. The caravan is quiet. From the main bedroom, Emma's voice has stopped — she's off the phone now, probably asleep.

I shift off him slowly, and he slips out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. I lie back on the narrow bed, the floral dress still twisted around me. Bradley lies beside me, half on top of me because the bed is too small for two people to lie side by side. His weight is warm, grounding. I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

"Your room," he says quietly, his voice rough. "You planned this."

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He kisses me — soft, lingering, different from the desperate kisses before. This one tastes like something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

He sits up, zips his jeans, and stands. At the door, he turns back. "Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Bradley."

He slips out, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, the creak of the main bedroom door opening and closing. Then silence.

I lie there in the dark, the dress still twisted around me, the fabric damp between my thighs. I don't move to change it. I don't want to. I want to feel this — the evidence, the proof of what I've done — for as long as it lasts before I have to wash it away.

I shift onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over me, and my hand brushes against something on the pillow. A folded piece of paper. I sit up, frowning, and unfold it in the dim light filtering through the curtain.

It's the receipt from the clubhouse bar. On the back, in his handwriting: One more day.

He must have slipped it under my pillow sometime today, before tonight, before any of this happened. While I was in the shower. While I was making tea. While Emma was watching. He knew. He planned this too.

I fold it once, twice, and slide it into the credit card slot of my phone case. Then I lie back down, pull the blanket to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the awning. I close my eyes and taste him on my lips, and I don't know how I'm going to look at Emma in the morning.

I know I will. I have to. That's what makes this work — my smile, my voice, my good mornings and pass the milk. All of it a lie I wear as easily as this dress.

And I'll wear it again tomorrow.The Friday night bleeds into Saturday morning before I'm ready for it. I wake before my alarm, lying still in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing beside me. The suitcase stands in the corner of the bedroom, packed and zipped, the black lace hidden beneath cardigans like a confession I haven't made yet.

Sam stirs when I sit up. "Train's at ten," he mumbles, squinting at the clock. "You want a lift to the station?"

I tell him no, it's fine, the walk will do me good. He nods and rolls over, and I dress in the bathroom with the door closed, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper, not looking at my reflection for too long.

He's already in the kitchen when I come down, making coffee. He hands me a mug without looking at me. The mug says World's Okayest Husband. He got it as a joke. I drink it, the heat burning my tongue. I deserve that.

"Have a good time," he says, kissing my cheek. "Send photos of the coast."

"I will."

The lie sits between us, invisible. I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

The train to Chichester takes four hours with a change at London. I sit by the window with a book in my lap that I don't read. The fields blur past — green and gold under a late May sky, the light stretching long and warm. My phone sits face-up on the little table. No messages from Bradley. We agreed to keep contact minimal until I was actually there. Too much risk of Emma seeing something.

But I want to text him. I want to tell him I'm on my way, that every mile closer makes my chest tighter, that I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway. I don't. I leave the phone where it is and watch the world slide by.

Chichester station is small and clean, the kind of station that smells of coffee and warm stone. I step off the train with my suitcase and scan the car park. Emma's car is pulled up near the entrance, a practical silver hatchback. She's standing beside it, waving, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy tail, tortoiseshell glasses catching the sun.

I wave back and walk toward her, and for a moment I'm just a sister coming on holiday. That's all she sees. That's all she'll ever see.

"Laura!" She hugs me, brief and warm. "Good journey?"

"Long," I say, and it's true, but not for the reasons she'd think.

"Tell me about it. Bradley's got the kids sorted at the caravan — Ben's been asking when you're coming all morning." She opens the boot and I lift my suitcase in. "Lily's been clingy. Teething, I think. You'll have to deal with the chaos."

"I don't mind."

She grins. "You say that now."

The drive to Selsey takes twenty minutes. Emma talks about work, about the night shifts, about how tired she is. I nod and make the right noises, and all I can think about is the caravan at the end of this road, and Bradley inside it, and the thing we haven't said out loud since I agreed to come.

The caravan park is busy for half term — a scattering of families, kids on bikes, the distant shriek of children from the arcade. Emma pulls up outside a cream-coloured caravan with a striped awning that catches the late-afternoon sun. The door is open. I can hear Ben's voice inside, high and excited, and then Bradley's low rumble in reply.

My stomach knots.

I get out of the car and grab my suitcase, and Emma's already at the door calling out. "We're here! Laura's here!"

Ben appears first, all elbows and knees and a dinosaur T-shirt stretched over his small frame. "Auntie Laura!" He barrels toward me and I drop my case to hug him, laughing. "Did you bring your camera? Dad says we're going to the beach tomorrow."

"I did," I say. "We'll take lots of pictures."

He races back inside. I straighten up, and Bradley is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, his beard a little wilder than last time. He looks tired. He looks good. He looks at me, and for half a second his eyes do something I can't read — relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"Laura." His voice is steady. Casual. "Get in. I'll make tea."

He steps aside, and I walk past him into the caravan, close enough to smell his skin — soap and something warmer, something that makes my fingers twitch.

The caravan is small and cosy, all cream cupboards and floral cushions. A kitchenette opens into a living area with a pull-out sofa. A narrow hallway leads to three doors — the main bedroom for Emma and Bradley, a smaller room for the kids with bunk beds, and at the end, the guest room. My room. A door I can close. A door that locks.

I carry my suitcase down the hallway and push open the door to the guest room. It's tiny — a single bed pressed against the wall, a built-in wardrobe, a small window with a net curtain looking out onto the awning. But it's mine. Four walls and a latch. I set my suitcase on the bed and stand there for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Emma appears in the doorway. "Small, but it's got a lock. Bradley insisted — said you'd want privacy after sharing a house with Sam." She shrugs. "I told him you're not that fussy, but you know what he's like."

I force a smile. "He's right. It's perfect."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back toward the kitchen. I close the door behind her and stand in the silence of my own small room, my hand resting on the latch, and I think about Bradley insisting I have a lock. What that means. What he's already planning.

The next few days pass in a blur of salt air and shrieking gulls. Monday is the arcade — Ben dragging us from machine to machine, a cascade of 2p coins and flashing lights. Emma wins a stuffed dolphin at the grabber. Lily falls asleep in her pushchair. Bradley stands beside me at the air hockey table, his arm brushing mine, and neither of us moves away.

Tuesday is the beach. The sky is bright, the breeze warm against our skin, and we leave our jackets in the car while Ben runs ahead, collecting shells. I take photos — of Ben, of Lily in Emma's arms, of the foam-white waves crashing against the shingle. Bradley is in the background of most of them, a shadow I keep catching.

And then I'm in the red swimsuit.

It's Tuesday afternoon, back at the caravan after the beach. The kids are sandy and tired, and Emma suggests we use the outdoor pool at the park before dinner. I dig the swimsuit from the bottom of my suitcase — a one-piece, deep red, cut high on the thighs and low at the chest. I bought it months ago, never wore it. I tell myself it's practical. I tell myself it's not for him.

The pool is warm and chlorinated, the sun still high, the air thick with steam. I swim laps for a few minutes, then float on my back, staring at the sky. Ben is doing handstands in the shallow end. Emma is in the corner with Lily, holding her in the water, singing softly.

Bradley is sitting on the edge, feet in the water, not swimming. Watching me.

I catch his eye and he doesn't look away. His gaze drops — to the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, the way the red fabric clings to my skin. I feel it like a touch, like his hand on me, and I have to turn my head to hide the flush that crawls up my neck.

When I look back, he's gone. I hear him in the changing room, the door swinging shut. I float a little longer, my heart hammering, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Wednesday is quieter. Emma says she's exhausted — the sun, the kids, the constant noise. She takes Lily for a nap in the afternoon, and Ben settles in with his Nintendo Switch on the sofa. Bradley and I are left in the small kitchen, drying dishes in silence.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice low, not looking at me.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He hands me a plate. I dry it. Neither of us says what we're really thinking.

That evening, we go to the clubhouse for entertainment. It's a low-key affair — a local band playing covers in the corner, families eating chips and drinking soft drinks, kids running between the tables. Ben is glued to the arcade machines. Lily is on Emma's lap, drowsy. I pick at a basket of chips I'm not hungry for.

"I'll get another round," Bradley says, standing. "Laura, help me carry?"

It's casual. It's nothing. Emma nods without looking up, focused on Lily. I stand and follow him to the bar.

The bar is crowded, the music loud enough to cover our voices. He orders two cokes and a pint of something dark, and while the barman pours, his hand finds mine under the counter. His fingers slide between mine. I go still.

"Don't look at me," he says, his mouth barely moving. "Just for a second."

I don't look. I stand there, his hand in mine, the worn wood of the bar under my other palm, and I breathe. Around us, people laugh and talk and live their ordinary lives. No one sees.

The barman puts the drinks down. Bradley lets go, picks up the glasses, and walks back toward the table. I pick up the pint and follow, my hand still warm where his was.

Back at the caravan, the night is winding down. Emma puts the kids to bed — Ben grumbling, Lily already asleep in her arms. I hear her voice through the thin walls, soft and soothing. Bradley pours himself a Morgan Spiced and Coke. I open a beer from the fridge, not really wanting it, needing something to do with my hands.

Emma comes out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "I'm knackered," she says. "Going to have a smoke and then crash."

She pulls on a jacket and steps outside. I hear the click of her lighter, the sigh of smoke leaving her lungs through the crack in the door.

Bradley and I are alone in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The only light is the dim glow from the kitchenette. He puts his glass down and flicks through his phone, and after a moment, music starts playing — low, something slow and bluesy, a man's voice crooning over a guitar. Something that sounds like night.

I stand by the kitchen counter, holding my beer, and I can feel every inch of space between us. I'm wearing a dress — navy blue, soft cotton, short-sleeved, hem above the knee. Nothing special. But I know what I want.

"I'm going to get changed," I say, and my voice comes out steady, which surprises me.

Bradley looks at me. "Okay."

I walk to my room at the end of the hall. I close the door behind me — don't lock it — and I stand for a moment in the dark, my hand on the latch. Then I open the door again, leaving it ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway falls across the bed.

I turn my back to the gap in the door, step out of my flats, and pull my dress over my head.

I'm in my bra and knickers — plain black cotton, functional. Not what I packed the lace for. I reach into my suitcase, find the floral wrap dress I wore on the first night — low-cut, soft fabric that moves. But I don't put it on yet. I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. I slide it down my arms and drop it into the open suitcase. Then I hook my thumbs into my knickers and push them down, step out of them, and leave them in the case too.

I tie the dress closed. The fabric falls soft against my skin, nothing underneath. I can feel the air on my thighs, my breasts loose and bare beneath the thin cotton. I turn around, walk back down the hallway, and step into the living room.

Bradley is watching me from the sofa, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes are dark. He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to the hallway behind me, to the open door of my room, and I see him understand.

The door clicks — Emma coming back in. I hear her stamp her feet on the mat. "Nice out there. Still warm." I smile at her, normal, as if I'm not standing here naked under a dress, as if my pulse isn't screaming.

"I'm turning in," I say. "Long day. Night, Em."

"Night, Laura." She yawns. "Brad, don't stay up too late."

"Five minutes," he says, his voice steady. "Just finishing this."

She disappears into the bedroom. The door closes. The lock clicks — I hear it, definite and final. She's locked herself in. She's not coming out again tonight.

I wait. The music plays on. Bradley drains his glass, stands, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him rinse the glass, set it in the rack. Then he turns, and his eyes find mine.

I don't speak. I cross the room and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to my room. The door is still ajar, exactly as I left it. I push it open, pull him inside, and close it behind us. The latch clicks soft and final.

There's no window in here, just the thin walls and the sound of Emma's muffled voice through the bedroom wall — she's on her phone, talking to someone, the cadence of a work call. Safe. Distracted. Not listening.

I turn to Bradley and he's already reaching for me, his hands finding my waist, sliding up my ribs. He feels the absence of fabric. His eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"I know."

I push him back onto the single bed. It creaks under his weight, the mattress narrow and thin. I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, the floral dress rucking up around my hips. He makes a sound — low, surprised, a rough exhale against my mouth.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet," I whisper. "We have to be quiet."

He grips my hips, pulls me forward, and I feel him hard against me through his jeans. I grind down, just once, and the friction makes my head go light. "Bradley—"

"Quiet," he says, echoing me, a dark smile breaking across his face. "You said quiet."

I kiss him, open-mouthed, desperate. His tongue meets mine, and I taste the spiced rum, the salt of his skin. His hands slide down my hips, bunching the dress at my waist, and then he's touching me — bare, wet, ready. I bite his lip to stop the moan that wants to tear out of my throat.

He works the zip of his jeans one-handed, quick and practiced. I lift up just enough for him to free himself, and then I'm reaching down, guiding him, and the moment he pushes inside me I lose all thought. I'm full. I'm stretched open. I'm exactly where I need to be.

His hands grip my hips, steadying me. I ride him, slow at first, the bed frame creaking beneath us. Every sound feels like a gunshot. I put my hand over his mouth, and he bites my palm, eyes locked on mine, half-feral. I bite my own lip until I taste copper.

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and then he's pulling the wrap of my dress loose, pushing the fabric aside until my breasts are free. He takes one in his mouth, and I arch into him, and I have to press my whole hand over my own mouth to stay silent.

I ride him harder. The rhythm is urgent, sloppy, perfect. I feel the tension building in my thighs, in my core, a wave that keeps cresting but not breaking. He's watching me, his hand still in my hair, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," he breathes. "Come quiet."

I slam my hand over his mouth and mine at once, and I come — a shuddering, silent release that shakes through me like a tremor. He follows, muffling his own groan against my hand, his hips bucking up into me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. The music still plays faintly from the living room. The caravan is quiet. From the main bedroom, Emma's voice has stopped — she's off the phone now, probably asleep.

I shift off him slowly, and he slips out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. I lie back on the narrow bed, the floral dress still twisted around me. Bradley lies beside me, half on top of me because the bed is too small for two people to lie side by side. His weight is warm, grounding. I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

"Your room," he says quietly, his voice rough. "You planned this."

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He kisses me — soft, lingering, different from the desperate kisses before. This one tastes like something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

He sits up, zips his jeans, and stands. At the door, he turns back. "Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Bradley."

He slips out, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, the creak of the main bedroom door opening and closing. Then silence.

I lie there in the dark, the dress still twisted around me, the fabric damp between my thighs. I don't move to change it. I don't want to. I want to feel this — the evidence, the proof of what I've done — for as long as it lasts before I have to wash it away.

I shift onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over me, and my hand brushes against something on the pillow. A folded piece of paper. I sit up, frowning, and unfold it in the dim light filtering through the curtain.

It's the receipt from the clubhouse bar. On the back, in his handwriting: One more day.

He must have slipped it under my pillow sometime today, before tonight, before any of this happened. While I was in the shower. While I was making tea. While Emma was watching. He knew. He planned this too.

I fold it once, twice, and slide it into the credit card slot of my phone case. Then I lie back down, pull the blanket to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the awning. I close my eyes and taste him on my lips, and I don't know how I'm going to look at Emma in the morning.

I know I will. I have to. That's what makes this work — my smile, my voice, my good mornings and pass the milk. All of it a lie I wear as easily as this dress.

And I'll wear it again tomorrow.The Friday night bleeds into Saturday morning before I'm ready for it. I wake before my alarm, lying still in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing beside me. The suitcase stands in the corner of the bedroom, packed and zipped, the black lace hidden beneath cardigans like a confession I haven't made yet.

Sam stirs when I sit up. "Train's at ten," he mumbles, squinting at the clock. "You want a lift to the station?"

I tell him no, it's fine, the walk will do me good. He nods and rolls over, and I dress in the bathroom with the door closed, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper, not looking at my reflection for too long.

He's already in the kitchen when I come down, making coffee. He hands me a mug without looking at me. The mug says World's Okayest Husband. He got it as a joke. I drink it, the heat burning my tongue. I deserve that.

"Have a good time," he says, kissing my cheek. "Send photos of the coast."

"I will."

The lie sits between us, invisible. I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

The train to Chichester takes four hours with a change at London. I sit by the window with a book in my lap that I don't read. The fields blur past — green and gold under a late May sky, the light stretching long and warm. My phone sits face-up on the little table. No messages from Bradley. We agreed to keep contact minimal until I was actually there. Too much risk of Emma seeing something.

But I want to text him. I want to tell him I'm on my way, that every mile closer makes my chest tighter, that I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway. I don't. I leave the phone where it is and watch the world slide by.

Chichester station is small and clean, the kind of station that smells of coffee and warm stone. I step off the train with my suitcase and scan the car park. Emma's car is pulled up near the entrance, a practical silver hatchback. She's standing beside it, waving, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy tail, tortoiseshell glasses catching the sun.

I wave back and walk toward her, and for a moment I'm just a sister coming on holiday. That's all she sees. That's all she'll ever see.

"Laura!" She hugs me, brief and warm. "Good journey?"

"Long," I say, and it's true, but not for the reasons she'd think.

"Tell me about it. Bradley's got the kids sorted at the caravan — Ben's been asking when you're coming all morning." She opens the boot and I lift my suitcase in. "Lily's been clingy. Teething, I think. You'll have to deal with the chaos."

"I don't mind."

She grins. "You say that now."

The drive to Selsey takes twenty minutes. Emma talks about work, about the night shifts, about how tired she is. I nod and make the right noises, and all I can think about is the caravan at the end of this road, and Bradley inside it, and the thing we haven't said out loud since I agreed to come.

The caravan park is busy for half term — a scattering of families, kids on bikes, the distant shriek of children from the arcade. Emma pulls up outside a cream-coloured caravan with a striped awning that catches the late-afternoon sun. The door is open. I can hear Ben's voice inside, high and excited, and then Bradley's low rumble in reply.

My stomach knots.

I get out of the car and grab my suitcase, and Emma's already at the door calling out. "We're here! Laura's here!"

Ben appears first, all elbows and knees and a dinosaur T-shirt stretched over his small frame. "Auntie Laura!" He barrels toward me and I drop my case to hug him, laughing. "Did you bring your camera? Dad says we're going to the beach tomorrow."

"I did," I say. "We'll take lots of pictures."

He races back inside. I straighten up, and Bradley is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, his beard a little wilder than last time. He looks tired. He looks good. He looks at me, and for half a second his eyes do something I can't read — relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"Laura." His voice is steady. Casual. "Get in. I'll make tea."

He steps aside, and I walk past him into the caravan, close enough to smell his skin — soap and something warmer, something that makes my fingers twitch.

The caravan is small and cosy, all cream cupboards and floral cushions. A kitchenette opens into a living area with a pull-out sofa. A narrow hallway leads to three doors — the main bedroom for Emma and Bradley, a smaller room for the kids with bunk beds, and at the end, the guest room. My room. A door I can close. A door that locks.

I carry my suitcase down the hallway and push open the door to the guest room. It's tiny — a single bed pressed against the wall, a built-in wardrobe, a small window with a net curtain looking out onto the awning. But it's mine. Four walls and a latch. I set my suitcase on the bed and stand there for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Emma appears in the doorway. "Small, but it's got a lock. Bradley insisted — said you'd want privacy after sharing a house with Sam." She shrugs. "I told him you're not that fussy, but you know what he's like."

I force a smile. "He's right. It's perfect."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back toward the kitchen. I close the door behind her and stand in the silence of my own small room, my hand resting on the latch, and I think about Bradley insisting I have a lock. What that means. What he's already planning.

The next few days pass in a blur of salt air and shrieking gulls. Monday is the arcade — Ben dragging us from machine to machine, a cascade of 2p coins and flashing lights. Emma wins a stuffed dolphin at the grabber. Lily falls asleep in her pushchair. Bradley stands beside me at the air hockey table, his arm brushing mine, and neither of us moves away.

Tuesday is the beach. The sky is bright, the breeze warm against our skin, and we leave our jackets in the car while Ben runs ahead, collecting shells. I take photos — of Ben, of Lily in Emma's arms, of the foam-white waves crashing against the shingle. Bradley is in the background of most of them, a shadow I keep catching.

And then I'm in the red swimsuit.

It's Tuesday afternoon, back at the caravan after the beach. The kids are sandy and tired, and Emma suggests we use the outdoor pool at the park before dinner. I dig the swimsuit from the bottom of my suitcase — a one-piece, deep red, cut high on the thighs and low at the chest. I bought it months ago, never wore it. I tell myself it's practical. I tell myself it's not for him.

The pool is warm and chlorinated, the sun still high, the air thick with steam. I swim laps for a few minutes, then float on my back, staring at the sky. Ben is doing handstands in the shallow end. Emma is in the corner with Lily, holding her in the water, singing softly.

Bradley is sitting on the edge, feet in the water, not swimming. Watching me.

I catch his eye and he doesn't look away. His gaze drops — to the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, the way the red fabric clings to my skin. I feel it like a touch, like his hand on me, and I have to turn my head to hide the flush that crawls up my neck.

When I look back, he's gone. I hear him in the changing room, the door swinging shut. I float a little longer, my heart hammering, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Wednesday is quieter. Emma says she's exhausted — the sun, the kids, the constant noise. She takes Lily for a nap in the afternoon, and Ben settles in with his Nintendo Switch on the sofa. Bradley and I are left in the small kitchen, drying dishes in silence.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice low, not looking at me.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He hands me a plate. I dry it. Neither of us says what we're really thinking.

That evening, we go to the clubhouse for entertainment. It's a low-key affair — a local band playing covers in the corner, families eating chips and drinking soft drinks, kids running between the tables. Ben is glued to the arcade machines. Lily is on Emma's lap, drowsy. I pick at a basket of chips I'm not hungry for.

"I'll get another round," Bradley says, standing. "Laura, help me carry?"

It's casual. It's nothing. Emma nods without looking up, focused on Lily. I stand and follow him to the bar.

The bar is crowded, the music loud enough to cover our voices. He orders two cokes and a pint of something dark, and while the barman pours, his hand finds mine under the counter. His fingers slide between mine. I go still.

"Don't look at me," he says, his mouth barely moving. "Just for a second."

I don't look. I stand there, his hand in mine, the worn wood of the bar under my other palm, and I breathe. Around us, people laugh and talk and live their ordinary lives. No one sees.

The barman puts the drinks down. Bradley lets go, picks up the glasses, and walks back toward the table. I pick up the pint and follow, my hand still warm where his was.

Back at the caravan, the night is winding down. Emma puts the kids to bed — Ben grumbling, Lily already asleep in her arms. I hear her voice through the thin walls, soft and soothing. Bradley pours himself a Morgan Spiced and Coke. I open a beer from the fridge, not really wanting it, needing something to do with my hands.

Emma comes out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "I'm knackered," she says. "Going to have a smoke and then crash."

She pulls on a jacket and steps outside. I hear the click of her lighter, the sigh of smoke leaving her lungs through the crack in the door.

Bradley and I are alone in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The only light is the dim glow from the kitchenette. He puts his glass down and flicks through his phone, and after a moment, music starts playing — low, something slow and bluesy, a man's voice crooning over a guitar. Something that sounds like night.

I stand by the kitchen counter, holding my beer, and I can feel every inch of space between us. I'm wearing a dress — navy blue, soft cotton, short-sleeved, hem above the knee. Nothing special. But I know what I want.

"I'm going to get changed," I say, and my voice comes out steady, which surprises me.

Bradley looks at me. "Okay."

I walk to my room at the end of the hall. I close the door behind me — don't lock it — and I stand for a moment in the dark, my hand on the latch. Then I open the door again, leaving it ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway falls across the bed.

I turn my back to the gap in the door, step out of my flats, and pull my dress over my head.

I'm in my bra and knickers — plain black cotton, functional. Not what I packed the lace for. I reach into my suitcase, find the floral wrap dress I wore on the first night — low-cut, soft fabric that moves. But I don't put it on yet. I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. I slide it down my arms and drop it into the open suitcase. Then I hook my thumbs into my knickers and push them down, step out of them, and leave them in the case too.

I tie the dress closed. The fabric falls soft against my skin, nothing underneath. I can feel the air on my thighs, my breasts loose and bare beneath the thin cotton. I turn around, walk back down the hallway, and step into the living room.

Bradley is watching me from the sofa, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes are dark. He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to the hallway behind me, to the open door of my room, and I see him understand.

The door clicks — Emma coming back in. I hear her stamp her feet on the mat. "Nice out there. Still warm." I smile at her, normal, as if I'm not standing here naked under a dress, as if my pulse isn't screaming.

"I'm turning in," I say. "Long day. Night, Em."

"Night, Laura." She yawns. "Brad, don't stay up too late."

"Five minutes," he says, his voice steady. "Just finishing this."

She disappears into the bedroom. The door closes. The lock clicks — I hear it, definite and final. She's locked herself in. She's not coming out again tonight.

I wait. The music plays on. Bradley drains his glass, stands, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him rinse the glass, set it in the rack. Then he turns, and his eyes find mine.

I don't speak. I cross the room and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to my room. The door is still ajar, exactly as I left it. I push it open, pull him inside, and close it behind us. The latch clicks soft and final.

There's no window in here, just the thin walls and the sound of Emma's muffled voice through the bedroom wall — she's on her phone, talking to someone, the cadence of a work call. Safe. Distracted. Not listening.

I turn to Bradley and he's already reaching for me, his hands finding my waist, sliding up my ribs. He feels the absence of fabric. His eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"I know."

I push him back onto the single bed. It creaks under his weight, the mattress narrow and thin. I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, the floral dress rucking up around my hips. He makes a sound — low, surprised, a rough exhale against my mouth.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet," I whisper. "We have to be quiet."

He grips my hips, pulls me forward, and I feel him hard against me through his jeans. I grind down, just once, and the friction makes my head go light. "Bradley—"

"Quiet," he says, echoing me, a dark smile breaking across his face. "You said quiet."

I kiss him, open-mouthed, desperate. His tongue meets mine, and I taste the spiced rum, the salt of his skin. His hands slide down my hips, bunching the dress at my waist, and then he's touching me — bare, wet, ready. I bite his lip to stop the moan that wants to tear out of my throat.

He works the zip of his jeans one-handed, quick and practiced. I lift up just enough for him to free himself, and then I'm reaching down, guiding him, and the moment he pushes inside me I lose all thought. I'm full. I'm stretched open. I'm exactly where I need to be.

His hands grip my hips, steadying me. I ride him, slow at first, the bed frame creaking beneath us. Every sound feels like a gunshot. I put my hand over his mouth, and he bites my palm, eyes locked on mine, half-feral. I bite my own lip until I taste copper.

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and then he's pulling the wrap of my dress loose, pushing the fabric aside until my breasts are free. He takes one in his mouth, and I arch into him, and I have to press my whole hand over my own mouth to stay silent.

I ride him harder. The rhythm is urgent, sloppy, perfect. I feel the tension building in my thighs, in my core, a wave that keeps cresting but not breaking. He's watching me, his hand still in my hair, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," he breathes. "Come quiet."

I slam my hand over his mouth and mine at once, and I come — a shuddering, silent release that shakes through me like a tremor. He follows, muffling his own groan against my hand, his hips bucking up into me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. The music still plays faintly from the living room. The caravan is quiet. From the main bedroom, Emma's voice has stopped — she's off the phone now, probably asleep.

I shift off him slowly, and he slips out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. I lie back on the narrow bed, the floral dress still twisted around me. Bradley lies beside me, half on top of me because the bed is too small for two people to lie side by side. His weight is warm, grounding. I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

"Your room," he says quietly, his voice rough. "You planned this."

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He kisses me — soft, lingering, different from the desperate kisses before. This one tastes like something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

He sits up, zips his jeans, and stands. At the door, he turns back. "Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Bradley."

He slips out, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, the creak of the main bedroom door opening and closing. Then silence.

I lie there in the dark, the dress still twisted around me, the fabric damp between my thighs. I don't move to change it. I don't want to. I want to feel this — the evidence, the proof of what I've done — for as long as it lasts before I have to wash it away.

I shift onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over me, and my hand brushes against something on the pillow. A folded piece of paper. I sit up, frowning, and unfold it in the dim light filtering through the curtain.

It's the receipt from the clubhouse bar. On the back, in his handwriting: One more day.

He must have slipped it under my pillow sometime today, before tonight, before any of this happened. While I was in the shower. While I was making tea. While Emma was watching. He knew. He planned this too.

I fold it once, twice, and slide it into the credit card slot of my phone case. Then I lie back down, pull the blanket to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the awning. I close my eyes and taste him on my lips, and I don't know how I'm going to look at Emma in the morning.

I know I will. I have to. That's what makes this work — my smile, my voice, my good mornings and pass the milk. All of it a lie I wear as easily as this dress.

And I'll wear it again tomorrow.The Friday night bleeds into Saturday morning before I'm ready for it. I wake before my alarm, lying still in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing beside me. The suitcase stands in the corner of the bedroom, packed and zipped, the black lace hidden beneath cardigans like a confession I haven't made yet.

Sam stirs when I sit up. "Train's at ten," he mumbles, squinting at the clock. "You want a lift to the station?"

I tell him no, it's fine, the walk will do me good. He nods and rolls over, and I dress in the bathroom with the door closed, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper, not looking at my reflection for too long.

He's already in the kitchen when I come down, making coffee. He hands me a mug without looking at me. The mug says World's Okayest Husband. He got it as a joke. I drink it, the heat burning my tongue. I deserve that.

"Have a good time," he says, kissing my cheek. "Send photos of the coast."

"I will."

The lie sits between us, invisible. I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.

The train to Chichester takes four hours with a change at London. I sit by the window with a book in my lap that I don't read. The fields blur past — green and gold under a late May sky, the light stretching long and warm. My phone sits face-up on the little table. No messages from Bradley. We agreed to keep contact minimal until I was actually there. Too much risk of Emma seeing something.

But I want to text him. I want to tell him I'm on my way, that every mile closer makes my chest tighter, that I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway. I don't. I leave the phone where it is and watch the world slide by.

Chichester station is small and clean, the kind of station that smells of coffee and warm stone. I step off the train with my suitcase and scan the car park. Emma's car is pulled up near the entrance, a practical silver hatchback. She's standing beside it, waving, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy tail, tortoiseshell glasses catching the sun.

I wave back and walk toward her, and for a moment I'm just a sister coming on holiday. That's all she sees. That's all she'll ever see.

"Laura!" She hugs me, brief and warm. "Good journey?"

"Long," I say, and it's true, but not for the reasons she'd think.

"Tell me about it. Bradley's got the kids sorted at the caravan — Ben's been asking when you're coming all morning." She opens the boot and I lift my suitcase in. "Lily's been clingy. Teething, I think. You'll have to deal with the chaos."

"I don't mind."

She grins. "You say that now."

The drive to Selsey takes twenty minutes. Emma talks about work, about the night shifts, about how tired she is. I nod and make the right noises, and all I can think about is the caravan at the end of this road, and Bradley inside it, and the thing we haven't said out loud since I agreed to come.

The caravan park is busy for half term — a scattering of families, kids on bikes, the distant shriek of children from the arcade. Emma pulls up outside a cream-coloured caravan with a striped awning that catches the late-afternoon sun. The door is open. I can hear Ben's voice inside, high and excited, and then Bradley's low rumble in reply.

My stomach knots.

I get out of the car and grab my suitcase, and Emma's already at the door calling out. "We're here! Laura's here!"

Ben appears first, all elbows and knees and a dinosaur T-shirt stretched over his small frame. "Auntie Laura!" He barrels toward me and I drop my case to hug him, laughing. "Did you bring your camera? Dad says we're going to the beach tomorrow."

"I did," I say. "We'll take lots of pictures."

He races back inside. I straighten up, and Bradley is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, his beard a little wilder than last time. He looks tired. He looks good. He looks at me, and for half a second his eyes do something I can't read — relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"Laura." His voice is steady. Casual. "Get in. I'll make tea."

He steps aside, and I walk past him into the caravan, close enough to smell his skin — soap and something warmer, something that makes my fingers twitch.

The caravan is small and cosy, all cream cupboards and floral cushions. A kitchenette opens into a living area with a pull-out sofa. A narrow hallway leads to three doors — the main bedroom for Emma and Bradley, a smaller room for the kids with bunk beds, and at the end, the guest room. My room. A door I can close. A door that locks.

I carry my suitcase down the hallway and push open the door to the guest room. It's tiny — a single bed pressed against the wall, a built-in wardrobe, a small window with a net curtain looking out onto the awning. But it's mine. Four walls and a latch. I set my suitcase on the bed and stand there for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Emma appears in the doorway. "Small, but it's got a lock. Bradley insisted — said you'd want privacy after sharing a house with Sam." She shrugs. "I told him you're not that fussy, but you know what he's like."

I force a smile. "He's right. It's perfect."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back toward the kitchen. I close the door behind her and stand in the silence of my own small room, my hand resting on the latch, and I think about Bradley insisting I have a lock. What that means. What he's already planning.

The next few days pass in a blur of salt air and shrieking gulls. Monday is the arcade — Ben dragging us from machine to machine, a cascade of 2p coins and flashing lights. Emma wins a stuffed dolphin at the grabber. Lily falls asleep in her pushchair. Bradley stands beside me at the air hockey table, his arm brushing mine, and neither of us moves away.

Tuesday is the beach. The sky is bright, the breeze warm against our skin, and we leave our jackets in the car while Ben runs ahead, collecting shells. I take photos — of Ben, of Lily in Emma's arms, of the foam-white waves crashing against the shingle. Bradley is in the background of most of them, a shadow I keep catching.

And then I'm in the red swimsuit.

It's Tuesday afternoon, back at the caravan after the beach. The kids are sandy and tired, and Emma suggests we use the outdoor pool at the park before dinner. I dig the swimsuit from the bottom of my suitcase — a one-piece, deep red, cut high on the thighs and low at the chest. I bought it months ago, never wore it. I tell myself it's practical. I tell myself it's not for him.

The pool is warm and chlorinated, the sun still high, the air thick with steam. I swim laps for a few minutes, then float on my back, staring at the sky. Ben is doing handstands in the shallow end. Emma is in the corner with Lily, holding her in the water, singing softly.

Bradley is sitting on the edge, feet in the water, not swimming. Watching me.

I catch his eye and he doesn't look away. His gaze drops — to the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, the way the red fabric clings to my skin. I feel it like a touch, like his hand on me, and I have to turn my head to hide the flush that crawls up my neck.

When I look back, he's gone. I hear him in the changing room, the door swinging shut. I float a little longer, my heart hammering, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Wednesday is quieter. Emma says she's exhausted — the sun, the kids, the constant noise. She takes Lily for a nap in the afternoon, and Ben settles in with his Nintendo Switch on the sofa. Bradley and I are left in the small kitchen, drying dishes in silence.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice low, not looking at me.

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He hands me a plate. I dry it. Neither of us says what we're really thinking.

That evening, we go to the clubhouse for entertainment. It's a low-key affair — a local band playing covers in the corner, families eating chips and drinking soft drinks, kids running between the tables. Ben is glued to the arcade machines. Lily is on Emma's lap, drowsy. I pick at a basket of chips I'm not hungry for.

"I'll get another round," Bradley says, standing. "Laura, help me carry?"

It's casual. It's nothing. Emma nods without looking up, focused on Lily. I stand and follow him to the bar.

The bar is crowded, the music loud enough to cover our voices. He orders two cokes and a pint of something dark, and while the barman pours, his hand finds mine under the counter. His fingers slide between mine. I go still.

"Don't look at me," he says, his mouth barely moving. "Just for a second."

I don't look. I stand there, his hand in mine, the worn wood of the bar under my other palm, and I breathe. Around us, people laugh and talk and live their ordinary lives. No one sees.

The barman puts the drinks down. Bradley lets go, picks up the glasses, and walks back toward the table. I pick up the pint and follow, my hand still warm where his was.

Back at the caravan, the night is winding down. Emma puts the kids to bed — Ben grumbling, Lily already asleep in her arms. I hear her voice through the thin walls, soft and soothing. Bradley pours himself a Morgan Spiced and Coke. I open a beer from the fridge, not really wanting it, needing something to do with my hands.

Emma comes out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. "I'm knackered," she says. "Going to have a smoke and then crash."

She pulls on a jacket and steps outside. I hear the click of her lighter, the sigh of smoke leaving her lungs through the crack in the door.

Bradley and I are alone in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The only light is the dim glow from the kitchenette. He puts his glass down and flicks through his phone, and after a moment, music starts playing — low, something slow and bluesy, a man's voice crooning over a guitar. Something that sounds like night.

I stand by the kitchen counter, holding my beer, and I can feel every inch of space between us. I'm wearing a dress — navy blue, soft cotton, short-sleeved, hem above the knee. Nothing special. But I know what I want.

"I'm going to get changed," I say, and my voice comes out steady, which surprises me.

Bradley looks at me. "Okay."

I walk to my room at the end of the hall. I close the door behind me — don't lock it — and I stand for a moment in the dark, my hand on the latch. Then I open the door again, leaving it ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway falls across the bed.

I turn my back to the gap in the door, step out of my flats, and pull my dress over my head.

I'm in my bra and knickers — plain black cotton, functional. Not what I packed the lace for. I reach into my suitcase, find the floral wrap dress I wore on the first night — low-cut, soft fabric that moves. But I don't put it on yet. I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. I slide it down my arms and drop it into the open suitcase. Then I hook my thumbs into my knickers and push them down, step out of them, and leave them in the case too.

I tie the dress closed. The fabric falls soft against my skin, nothing underneath. I can feel the air on my thighs, my breasts loose and bare beneath the thin cotton. I turn around, walk back down the hallway, and step into the living room.

Bradley is watching me from the sofa, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes are dark. He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to the hallway behind me, to the open door of my room, and I see him understand.

The door clicks — Emma coming back in. I hear her stamp her feet on the mat. "Nice out there. Still warm." I smile at her, normal, as if I'm not standing here naked under a dress, as if my pulse isn't screaming.

"I'm turning in," I say. "Long day. Night, Em."

"Night, Laura." She yawns. "Brad, don't stay up too late."

"Five minutes," he says, his voice steady. "Just finishing this."

She disappears into the bedroom. The door closes. The lock clicks — I hear it, definite and final. She's locked herself in. She's not coming out again tonight.

I wait. The music plays on. Bradley drains his glass, stands, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him rinse the glass, set it in the rack. Then he turns, and his eyes find mine.

I don't speak. I cross the room and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to my room. The door is still ajar, exactly as I left it. I push it open, pull him inside, and close it behind us. The latch clicks soft and final.

There's no window in here, just the thin walls and the sound of Emma's muffled voice through the bedroom wall — she's on her phone, talking to someone, the cadence of a work call. Safe. Distracted. Not listening.

I turn to Bradley and he's already reaching for me, his hands finding my waist, sliding up my ribs. He feels the absence of fabric. His eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"I know."

I push him back onto the single bed. It creaks under his weight, the mattress narrow and thin. I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, the floral dress rucking up around my hips. He makes a sound — low, surprised, a rough exhale against my mouth.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet," I whisper. "We have to be quiet."

He grips my hips, pulls me forward, and I feel him hard against me through his jeans. I grind down, just once, and the friction makes my head go light. "Bradley—"

"Quiet," he says, echoing me, a dark smile breaking across his face. "You said quiet."

I kiss him, open-mouthed, desperate. His tongue meets mine, and I taste the spiced rum, the salt of his skin. His hands slide down my hips, bunching the dress at my waist, and then he's touching me — bare, wet, ready. I bite his lip to stop the moan that wants to tear out of my throat.

He works the zip of his jeans one-handed, quick and practiced. I lift up just enough for him to free himself, and then I'm reaching down, guiding him, and the moment he pushes inside me I lose all thought. I'm full. I'm stretched open. I'm exactly where I need to be.

His hands grip my hips, steadying me. I ride him, slow at first, the bed frame creaking beneath us. Every sound feels like a gunshot. I put my hand over his mouth, and he bites my palm, eyes locked on mine, half-feral. I bite my own lip until I taste copper.

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and then he's pulling the wrap of my dress loose, pushing the fabric aside until my breasts are free. He takes one in his mouth, and I arch into him, and I have to press my whole hand over my own mouth to stay silent.

I ride him harder. The rhythm is urgent, sloppy, perfect. I feel the tension building in my thighs, in my core, a wave that keeps cresting but not breaking. He's watching me, his hand still in my hair, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," he breathes. "Come quiet."

I slam my hand over his mouth and mine at once, and I come — a shuddering, silent release that shakes through me like a tremor. He follows, muffling his own groan against my hand, his hips bucking up into me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. The music still plays faintly from the living room. The caravan is quiet. From the main bedroom, Emma's voice has stopped — she's off the phone now, probably asleep.

I shift off him slowly, and he slips out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. I lie back on the narrow bed, the floral dress still twisted around me. Bradley lies beside me, half on top of me because the bed is too small for two people to lie side by side. His weight is warm, grounding. I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

"Your room," he says quietly, his voice rough. "You planned this."

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He kisses me — soft, lingering, different from the desperate kisses before. This one tastes like something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

He sits up, zips his jeans, and stands. At the door, he turns back. "Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Bradley."

He slips out, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, the creak of the main bedroom door opening and closing. Then silence.

I lie there in the dark, the dress still twisted around me, the fabric damp between my thighs. I don't move to change it. I don't want to. I want to feel this — the evidence, the proof of what I've done — for as long as it lasts before I have to wash it away.

I shift onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over me, and my hand brushes against something on the pillow. A folded piece of paper. I sit up, frowning, and unfold it in the dim light filtering through the curtain.

It's the receipt from the clubhouse bar. On the back, in his handwriting: One more day.

He must have slipped it under my pillow sometime today, before tonight, before any of this happened. While I was in the shower. While I was making tea. While Emma was watching. He knew. He planned this too.

I fold it once, twice, and slide it into the credit card slot of my phone case. Then I lie back down, pull the blanket to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the awning. I close my eyes and taste him on my lips, and I don't know how I'm going to look at Emma in the morning.

I know I will. I have to. That's what makes this work — my smile, my voice, my good mornings and pass the milk. All of it a lie I wear as easily as this dress.

And I'll wear it again tomorrow.