She wasn't sleeping.

Ben frowned at his stack of papers, neatly arranged on his desk. His fountain pens were lined up in varying shades of blue: navy, cerulean, cobalt... He selected the last shade, tapping it against his desk. Then he paused. Tapped again.

"You alright?" Aman asked.

His secretary was dressed in a bright yellow shirt today, chewing bubblegum in the way that some people chain-smoked. With Aman's Essex accent, the word came out more like you'o'ride?

"Fine," Ben grunted.

There was a pause. Ben began to count. One, two—

"It's just that you look proper grumpy," Aman added.

Ben tapped the pen. "I didn't get much sleep."

That wasn't strictly true. Ben had slept well, but Louise hadn't; he'd woken up around five o'clock to find her staring at the ceiling. The image had bothered him all day: Bentley, her dark hair splayed out around her, her hands resting on her stomach in the same way that funeral homes positioned corpses.

Ben frowned. Had she slept at all recently? Was it the accident, or sharing a bed with him? Did he insist that she take the master bedroom?

The questions gnawed away at him.

Not, Ben thought, that he was about to admit any of this to Aman.

His secretary nodded sagely, interlacing his fingers. "The boss gave you more work then, did he?"

Ben shuffled some papers. He could see why Aman would think that; Victor White was always giving him work.

"It's the kids, actually," Ben said. "They're very... energetic."

Again, not a lie. Aman studied him closely. Or maybe, Ben reflected, Aman was studying his white-shirt-and-navy-tie combo closely; his secretary had once told Ben that his wardrobe was so plain that it made cream crackers look exciting.

"Ah," Aman said. "You know what I think?" The word came out as fink. "Give them a load of sugar in the morning. I'm talking Coco Pops and hot chocolate. Get them proper worked up. They'll be knackered by dinner and then you can go to bed." Aman spun in his swivelled chair, kicking his legs up on the desk. "Sorted."

Ben blinked. "You know, that's a good idea."

Aman beamed. "It is, innit?"

His secretary leaned forward, rearranging a card with a burger on it that said, "Nice Buns, Honey." His desk was littered with hamburger-related items today, a veritable sea of novelty socks and bunting. Ben gestured at it with the pen.

"What's the occasion today, then?" he asked.

Aman didn't look up. "National Cheeseburger Day."

"Right," Ben said dryly. "How silly of me to forget."

"Langford!" a voice called.

His boss appeared, carrying a chocolate protein shake in one hand and a stack of files in the other. Aman swung his legs off the table, so fast that he almost knocked over a string of hamburger bunting. Victor stopped at Ben's desk.

"Do you have the drafts I asked for?" he asked.

Ben nodded. "On your desk."

"Good." Victor threw a stack of folders on to his desk. "Prioritize these for tomorrow. A client needs them sorted urgently."

Fuck.

Ben stared at the folders. Mentally calculated their weight. How long would that take? Four hours? Six? And he still had to do the school run tonight. Not to mention dinner, and bath time, and the bedtime routine...

He cleared his throat. "Actually, I—"

"Just get them done," Victor said.

His boss stalked towards his office, his irritatingly shiny shoes clicking on the tiled floor. Aman waited until the door was safely closed and then pulled a face.

"Mate," Aman said. "If I was you, I'd tell him to fuck right off."

Ben shook his head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Ben gave him a pointed look. Understanding dawned on Aman's face.

"Ah," Aman said. "You're going for a promotion."

"I can neither confirm nor deny."

"You'll get it," Aman said firmly. "Victor White's an arsehole, but he's not stupid. You're the best junior lawyer in the department."

Ben set the pen down. He wasn't sure that was strictly true: the hardest working, certainly, but not the best. People so often got the two confused. Ben rose from his seat, scraping the files into a black backpack.

"Cheers, mate," Ben said, "but I bring you a cappuccino every morning, so I'm not sure that your opinion would stand up in court. No offense." He slung the bag over his shoulder. "Right. I'm going to finish these up at home. School run, and all that."

Aman blew a kiss. "Give my love to the kiddos."

"Will do."

Ben stepped onto the street. Cyclists whizzed by, a blur of suit jackets and shiny watches. Tourists with American accents snapped pictures of a Tudoresque department store. He put on a podcast — a comedic take on this week's political scandal — and walked the twenty minutes to St Bartholomew's Primary School.

When Ben arrived, a knot of mothers stood outside. Imogen Sanders caught his eye and hurried over. Ben frowned. He rarely spoke to any of the parents, mostly because he didn't enjoy speaking to anyone; a few women had invited him to yoga and reading clubs at first, but Ben had politely — but firmly — rejected their invitations.

Now, the mothers treated Ben like changing the engine oil in their car: an ongoing nuisance, but a necessary one.

And yet, Imogen Sanders was clearly coming to talk to him.

Shit.

Ben pulled out his earbuds, his pulse kicking up. Had Hugh been kidnapped? Human trafficked? It wasn't like Hugh was in much danger during maths class, but then again, the school never locked their doors and—

"Ben!" Imogen was breathless. "Ben, have you heard the news?"

He shook his head. Imogen looked triumphant.

"There's lice," the woman said, flushed. "All over the school; little Poppy brought it back from holiday and now all of the children have it." She shifted her quilted handbag. "It's a complete disaster, really."

Imogen sounded delighted at the invasion of bloodsucking parasites. She probably was, actually, Ben thought; not much happened at St Bartholomew's. This was the most exciting news since Mary's husband, Dennis, slept with his secretary last year. His male secretary (Imogen had told Ben this last week, in between complimenting his cologne and inviting him to wine-and-cheese night at Mary's house).

"Okay," Ben said. "So what happens?"

Imogen's smile dimmed. "What do you mean?"

"What do we do?" Ben clarified.

Fucking hell, surely there were procedures in place for this sort of thing. Ben was a firm believer in procedures. Methodical steps that one could follow to reach a guaranteed outcome. Imogen was staring at him as if Ben had started speaking Latin, so he tried again.

"The school must have a plan," Ben said slowly. "Do they bring in a team of exterminators? Fumigate the classrooms?"

He had a sudden image of a group of men in white jumpsuits strolling down the corridor to the theme of "Ghostbusters." Imogen looked horrified.

"Oh no," Imogen said, "you don't understand; the lice will be all over your house by now." There was pity in her eyes. "You'll have to sort it out yourself."

This, Ben thought, had to be some sort of divine punishment.

He'd purchased two bottles of medicated lotion. Then he'd grabbed Vienna from daycare, took both children home, and spent two hours soaking their hair in foul-smelling liquid and combing through their hair for nits. No easy feat, Ben reflected, when both children had tight, dark curls; he might as well be searching for Atlantis.

Then came the rest of it.

He'd plopped Hugh and Vienna in front of the television and then begun the laborious task of cleaning everything. Clothes went in the laundry. Plush toys went in plastic bags. Bedsheets were removed. Everything had to go.

Louise arrived home just after eight o'clock. She'd paused in the doorway, taking in the plastic bags. The aroma of chemicals.

"No." She shook her head. "Please tell me it's not lice."

"It's lice," Ben said.

"Sh—" Louise caught herself, glancing at the kids. "Shoot."

"Yeah."

Ben deposited another load of laundry in the machine. He could hear Louise shuffling around, no doubt bagging up her coat and scarf. He went through to the bedroom, stripping off his bedsheets — their bedsheets — and then began to hoover the carpet. Just for good measure. Who knew where lice could hide?

Louise appeared in the doorway.

She was wearing a towel, her dark hair damp from a shower. Her cheeks were flushed, and beads of water gathered at her throat. A stab of desire went through him, so swift and unexpected that Ben blinked.

Jesus.

He did not just get turned on by Bentley in a towel. That couldn't have just happened. Had he hit his head recently? And yet, looking at her, her bare legs on full display...

Ben turned away.

"Put on some clothes, Bentley." His voice was slightly rough.

"You need to do me," Louise said.

Ben stiffened. Louise rolled her eyes.

"Jesus, Langford, not like that." She sat on a stool by the vanity. "We could have lice, too. I need you to comb through my hair."

Oh. "Right."

Ben looked at her warily. He wasn't sure that he could handle being that close to her, with whatever the hell was happening to his body. Louise held his gaze in the mirror; her green eyes were the colour of summer moss.

"I can do you, too," she said.

Ben dumped the bedsheets by the door. "Can you please stop phrasing it like that?"

"Prude," Louise said, but he caught the edge of a smile as she turned away. "Stop being a baby and pick up the comb."

Ben sighed.

He picked up the comb.

He was careful to touch her as little as possible, although it was difficult, given the task at hand; her hair was slick and shiny, running through the comb like black oil. And there was something about the curve of her neck that was distracting. Something...

Ben swallowed.

Something tempting.

Fuck. Maybe he had hit his head.

"I bought wrapping paper today," Louise said.

She hooked her legs at the ankle, rucking her towel further up her leg. Ben forced himself to concentrate on the comb.

"Oh," Ben said. "It's a bit early, isn't it?"

Vienna's birthday wasn't for another two weeks. Louise shifted, pushing that damned towel higher. Ben's grip on the comb tightened.

"For Hugh's mirror, I mean," Louise continued. "I figure we can paper over it. That way he won't be scared of Bloody Mary, and he and Vienna can go back to sharing a room."

"Oh."

Ben frowned. He'd known that was coming, obviously; they'd spoken about finding a solution to Hugh's nightmares. And Louise couldn't share his bed forever; of course she'd want her own space. It was just...

Soon.

Sooner than he'd been expecting, anyway. And Ben hated to be caught by surprise.

He turned his attention back to the comb, pausing to bend closer to her scalp. He caught a whiff of her pomegranate bodywash among the chemical fumes, and his body tightened in response. Again, Ben reflected: how hard had he hit his head?

He pulled back. "Bentley?"

"Yes?"

"If I ask you a question," Ben said, "will you answer honestly?"

Louise tilted her head. "Probably not. But go ahead."

"How are you sleeping?"

The question had been bothering him all day. Louise picked at a bit of skin by her nail.

"Horizontal, mostly," Louise said. "I find it hard to sleep standing up." Ben continued to run the comb through her hair, and her face turned wary. "What do you want me to say?"

Ben shrugged. "The truth."

Her nose wrinkled. "Has anyone ever told you that you're kind of scary? No wonder you make such a good lawyer. You should have gone into criminal interrogation."

"You don't have to answer."

His genuine tone must have surprised her. Surprised him, too, if he was honest. Louise's shoulders hunched, as if she was bracing for a strong wind. Or the crack of a whip, Ben thought, and immediately felt horrendous. Was he really so scary?

"It's not like I'm having nightmares," Louise said slowly. "It's just that I can't sleep." Her hands were balled in her lap. "My mind feels like it's this television that's switched on all the time and I've lost the remote. Does that make any sense?"

Ben paused. "Do I make it worse?"

"No," Louise said. "If anything, I think you make it better. Your stupidly loud breathing makes it difficult for me to focus on much else."

"That doesn't sound helpful."

"No, it is," Louise said. "It... distracts me."

Ben combed through another section of hair. This was difficult for her, he realized; she didn't really talk about feelings much, did she? Not genuine ones. He considered his next words carefully, grappling for them like a light switch in the dark.

"You don't have to move rooms," Ben said. "You can stay in my bed. I don't mind."

Her mouth curved. "Are you flirting with me, Langford?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

There was a pause. Louise met his gaze in the mirror.

"You really don't mind?" she asked.

Ben shook his head. "I get up early anyway. And you go to sleep late. We'll hardly ever see each other. And then the kids don't have to move rooms."

This was true; Hugh had been through so much lately that it seemed unfair to make him move again. Louise nibbled her lip. Again, Ben felt that strange pulse of heat, and he looked away.

"Okay," Louise said. "If it's for the kids."

Ben nodded. "For the kids."