Stay

The gentle, floating melody of Unchained Melody filled the bedroom, the sound soft and wistful as it spilled from the old radio on the bedside table. The dim glow of the lamp bathed the room in amber light, catching the edges of the heavy wooden bedroom furniture and washing them in warm hues of deep brown and black. Shadows stretched long across the floor. The air carried the faint scent of lavender and old books, wrapped in the cosy musk of worn fabric and antique wood.

Mary sat in bed, her back propped against a mountain of pillows. A floral duvet stretched over her, and atop it, an extra crocheted blanket lay folded . . . an expanding square of creams and deep pinks, a testament to idle hands never truly at rest. A book sat open against her chest, her fingers idly marking the page as though holding the words in place. She peered at Hank over the top of her reading glasses, her mouth curling . . . not quite a smile, but something slyer. A secret she was waiting for him to catch onto.

Hank hesitated near the doorway, his broad frame filling the space. He looked up slowly, like a man approaching something fragile, his chest heavy with the weight of guilt and quiet deceit. But Mary saw him. Really saw him. And she smirked, not just with her lips but with her eyes, sharp and knowing.

“You’ve been gone ages,” she murmured, her voice warm but edged with playfulness. “I was worried. Thought I might have to call a search party.”

Hank exhaled, shoulders loosening. “Sorry,” he rumbled, voice low and deep, rolling like distant thunder. “Sorry for leavin’ ya so long on ya birthday, Tiger.”

“Oh, shut up, Hank, and get in bed. I need my big spoon.” Her smirk deepened over the rim of her glasses. “My hot water bottle’s gone cold.”

Hank let out a quiet chuckle as he crossed the room. He moved to his side of the bed and began to undress, folding his pants and shirt neatly over the old wooden chair in the corner.

“Did Effie say anything on the way home?” Mary asked, her gaze steady, watching him.

Hank hesitated. “Yeah, she did.” He turned slightly, looking at the window instead of her. “She said she might be comin’ to see us this weekend.”

And in his head, he added, “and she told me I have to drag you to a doctor, whether you like it or not.” But he left that part unspoken. He was too damn tired to wade into that argument now.

He heard Mary inhale deeply, and even without looking, he could picture the way her eyes lit up, the way excitement softened the lines of her face. He grinned to himself, a private thing. He lived for these moments . . . feeding her joy, feeding off her joy, like a hummingbird stealing nectar from a flower. Because that’s what Mary was. A flower. As delicate as she was beautiful.

Hank flicked his shorts and socks across the room, watching them land square in the laundry basket with practised precision. An old habit, a motion so ingrained he could do it in the dark.

Mary let out a small, teasing whistle just before his bare backside disappeared beneath his pyjama shorts. “Still got it,” she murmured, her smirk never faltering.

Hank only shook his head as he climbed into bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. He adjusted, wiggling into place as Mary discarded a few unnecessary pillows onto the floor, shifting herself closer, pressing against him. Her head fit into the space between his shoulder and chest like she had been carved for that very spot. One of his massive hands swallowed one of hers, their fingers lacing together.

The radio shifted songs, the tune changing to something slower, softer. Tears in Heaven. The lyrics were a whisper, asking a question.

“Would you know my name?” Mary asked suddenly, her voice quiet, almost fragile.

Hank frowned. “Huh?”

“The song, Hank. Would you know my name… if you saw me in Heaven… or maybe the next life?”

He understood now. His chest ached, and his grip on her hand tightened slightly. “I should hope so, Tiger,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb over her ice-cold fingers. She was freezing again. But he wasn’t about to bring that up now.

“Would you know mine?” He asked, his voice a little hoarse.

She turned to look at him. “Of course,” she said, firm and certain. “I’ll always know your name. And I’ll always find you!”

She kissed his shoulder, then reached over to turn off the radio. The soft hum of static was swallowed by silence.

“Now hurry up, Big Spoon,” she said, pulling his arm over her like an extra blanket. “Little Spoon needs warming up.”

Hank pulled her closer, fitting himself behind her like two pieces of a puzzle finally sliding into place. His nose pressed into her hair, and he inhaled deeply. Still just like lavender, he thought. But then something changed . . . something subtle. His hand moved under the duvet, tracing the familiar shape of her frame.

“Mary,” he said, his voice laced with surprise. “You aint wearin’ ya pyjamas.”

She giggled and pulled his arm tighter around her. “Well, it is still my birthday.”

Hank lifted his head, his expression shifting to something between excitement and disbelief ‘Wow, even at 63,’ he thought.

“Really?” he asked, his voice bordering on boyish eagerness.

“Really,” she confirmed. “But hurry up. I need to get some sleep. I thought you’d be back sooner.” She sighed, then caught herself. “Sorry, I just… I want this. I do. I’m just sleepy.”

Hank was already twisting awkwardly, contorting himself to shimmy out of his pyjama shorts.

If they rip, so be it.

He wasn’t about to let that slow him down. A moment later, his shorts hit the floor, and he wrapped himself around her fully, his chest pressing against her back, his heartbeat quick and strong. She could feel it thumping against her spine.

Mary kissed his fingers again, stroking them absently. “You better find me in the next life,” she whispered. “You gotta stay with me, Hank.”

His throat tightened. He pressed his lips into her hair. ‘First thing tomorrow,’ he thought, ‘I’m getting you to a doctor. Even if I have to carry you there myself.’

Then suddenly, a song rose in his mind . . . maybe because of the recent music on the radio, maybe because of her words. He began to hum, his deep baritone settling into a quiet melody.

“Stay… with me…” he murmured, the song threading its way through the silence. He repeated the verse another two times, building confidence with his pitch. It felt relevant. He stopped and kissed the back of her head again. “I’ll always find you, Tiger,”

Mary shifted slightly. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I like hearing you sing.”

Hank paused a moment, trying to remember the words, and then, he continued his soft whispered baritone on hot breath. Singing into the back of Mary’s head, through her hair as though sending his words directly into her thoughts,

“If this world is wearing thin… and you’re thinking of escape.. I’ll go anywhere with you…”

a soft snore interrupted him. He stopped. Listened. Another breath, deep and even. Asleep.

He chuckled to himself. Tonight wasn’t going to be ‘the night’ after all. “Sweet dreams, Tiger,” he whispered into her hair. His huge arm which had been keeping her warm lifted and stretched to her bedside table lamp.

“I’ll always find you.”

Then he turned off the light.