Page 30 of Don’t Let Me Go

“All right,” I say, shooting him a grin. “Since it’s your birthday.”

Charlie blushes in the moonlight. Then he slides down to my end of the tub and gently climbs on top of me. His legs straddle my hips as his arms wind ’round my neck. I run a hand through his damp hair and trace my fingers over his ears and down his throat.

Charlie closes his eyes and rests his forehead against mine. I can tell he’s nervous. He’s always nervous, even after all

these years. I take his left hand and kiss it, then the right, and then I place both his hands over my heart.

“Happy birthday, Charlie Dawes,” I whisper.

Charlie lowers his lips to mine and fills my mouth with kisses.

I guess you could say this is something else I’ve gotten used to.

Not that you’ll catch me broadcasting that fact to the world. I mean, it’s nice, innit? But it’s not exactly the sort of thing

you want getting out. I’ve enough to deal with trying to make it from one day to the next without people giving me dirty looks

or whispering rotten names behind my back.

But that’s the thing about Charlie. With him, it don’t feel dirty. Mad as it sounds, it feels clean. Pure. Sometimes I think

it’s the purest thing in my life.

Even so, Charlie still asks my permission every time. He knows this don’t come natural to me the way it does to him. Though

if I’m being honest—like, proper honest—there’s nothing he could ask of me that I’d ever refuse him. Refusing him would be

like refusing happiness. And who’d be daft enough to do that?

“Am I your boy?” Charlie asks, panting, between kisses.

His hunger for me fills me with my own hunger. A hunger to always be with him. Like this. With him in my arms. A hunger to

keep him safe and never let him go.

“You’re my boy,” I whisper, almost breathless.

“For always?” he presses.

“For always,” I promise.

I mean it too. Charlie might’ve chosen me first that day he followed me home from the market. But I’ve chosen him every day since. And I’ll never stop choosing him. Because there is no choice. We’re Jack and Charlie. We’re forever.

“Why haven’t they sounded the all-clear?” Charlie asks, cocking his head to the wind as we haul our loot over Waterloo Bridge.

We’ve been making our way to our digs for a while now, and aside from the wail of the air-raid sirens, the night is quiet,

and the sky is empty. There’s not a plane in sight.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Almost midnight.”

“They’ll be sounding the all-clear soon enough, then,” I say, shifting the weight of the sack on my back from one shoulder

to the other.

Between the wine, the books, and the trinkets, Charlie and I made quite the haul tonight. All we’ve got to do is find someone

to take this loot off our hands at the market tomorrow, and we’ll be sitting pretty for weeks. We can ditch the dump we’ve

been dossing in and find ourselves a proper room to rent. Maybe somewhere with our own private bath so we can have ourselves

a repeat of tonight whenever we fancy.

“Look at those colors,” Charlie says, leaning against the railing to peer down the river where Southwark and Tower Bridges

are still burning. Fire crews are trying to put out the blazes as ribbons of flames paint the purple sky with slashes of orange

and gold.

“It’s sort of beautiful, isn’t it?” Charlie asks, the distant fires flickering in his eyes.

I can’t help smiling. I know the world’s gone mad. I know people are dying, and not just here in London. I should be angry

or frightened. But standing here, watching the colors dance across the sky, I feel nothing but peace. Because I have what

the rest of the world doesn’t. I have Charlie.

“Oi, before I forget, I nabbed you something,” I tell him as I dig his present out of my pocket. “Happy birthday.”

Charlie’s eyes go wide as he stares down at the book I nicked off a bedside table.

“ A Midsummer Night’s Dream ! You found it! Thank you, Jack!”

Charlie throws his arms around me and crushes me in one of his wiry hugs. I don’t normally go in for such public displays

of affection, but as there ain’t much public about, I don’t see the harm.

I hug him back, breathing in the fresh scent of soap on his skin. I swear I’d stay like this forever if I could: The air crisp.

The sky a painting. And Charlie in my arms.

Then his shoulders stiffen, and he pulls away with a start. “What’s that noise?”

It takes my ears a second to clock what he hears, and when they do, my blood runs cold.

Charlie gasps in horror, and I follow his eyes to the sky. A sky full of planes. German planes. Not one or two stragglers,

not the dozen or so raiders we’ve come to expect, but forty—no, fifty planes. The night sky is thick with them, so thick they

almost block out the moon.

I don’t understand. The Germans never attack twice in the same evening. And they never send this many planes. There’s no need. Not for a few strategic strikes. I mean, you wouldn’t send all these planes unless...

Unless you were planning to wipe London off the map.

“Jack,” Charlie gasps.

I grab his hand. But it’s too late. The bombs are already falling.