As always, most of my introspection arrives just in time for bed. It's almost inevitable by now. I tuck myself in, close my eyes, and all my frazzled thoughts, which were previously patiently waiting in an orderly queue, suddenly rush towards the door to my brain. Like over-enthusiastic Black Friday customers, they push and shove, tumbling over each other to get inside. They're not looking for bargains, though; they just want to speak to the manager.

"He bought you that bracelet. What does that mean?" One particularly loud voice clamours, echoing inside my head.

Another: "He really does have the loveliest eyes, doesn't he? They're so nice and chocolate-y . . . You could eat them!" Weird.

"Remember how you felt when he said you looked perfect?"

"Remember how it felt when he was inside you?"

And then there's a chorus, chanting together, volume increasing as it repeats three words on a loop. "You like him. You like him. You like him!"

I can't lie to myself anymore. Can't deny the fact that I have feelings for Lewis Sheridan. He's been digging himself into my heart gradually, apparently one sarcastic comment at a time, for several years now. Scattering seeds that are finally starting to flower. It seems the time we've been spending alone together has been the life force they required to grow.

And I don't know what the hell to do about it.

Do I actually want to be with him? Could it even work? Sure, there have been moments where the spark is definitely present; sometimes, that spark has even ignited (case in point: last night!). But do I want to keep that fire burning? Does he?

I cast my mind back to earlier today: the point where he handed me the bracelet. The expression on his face - vulnerable, slightly shy . . . But open. Eager. I'd mumbled something incomprehensible and hurriedly reached for my ice cream to prevent my mouth from giving anything further away. He hadn't pushed further; I think he sensed he didn't need to. That it was just a waiting game now. And the next move is down to me.

After we ate, we found loungers on the beach at Agia Pelagia and sat side by side, studying our respective books as if they were reading material for an important upcoming exam. I would be failing that imaginary test for sure as I didn't take in a word of the text. I suspect the same could be said for Lewis. Any conversation exchanged between us was light on the surface but loaded underneath. The eye contact: tentative and infrequent, but thrilling.

My move. It's terrifying.

Rather than just living in the moment and taking my turn, I'm overanalysing everything - considering the repercussions, thinking several steps ahead. This particular game isn't fun . . . Because it's life, and it's complicated, and the rules never quite seem to align properly.

Not really sure what I'm doing, I push the door to the bedroom open and tiptoe down the steps towards the Lewis-shaped lump on the couch. He's half tangled in a sheet, one arm flung across his face, concealing it from view. His abs, however, are fully on show, and my eyes are very much enjoying that show. I draw my gaze downwards, and I briefly wonder if he is sleeping naked. But I have a feeling he'll have boxers on at least - which is disappointing and yet sweet all at once.

Still fast asleep, a small moan emerges from his mouth, and I suddenly realise he must be mid-dream. Maybe it's his turn to have a sex dream? I smirk, a glimmer of my old anti-Lewis self returning: wouldn't it be good to have that to hold over him?

"No!" His voice is plaintive, and at first, I think he's replying to my inner thoughts, but then I realise he's still unconscious. He turns slightly, his hand falling away from his face, and his expression is pained. It wasn't a moan, I deduce. It was a whimper. His cheeks are wet.

He's having a nightmare. His own personal Everest.

My hands itch to reach out and touch him, to comfort him. But I'm frozen, watching as his face screws up further, as his fists clench and then loosen on the sheet. As he lets out a sob, followed by what sounds like the word "sorry". But it's muffled as he has now buried his head into the side of the sofa, his body trembling uncontrollably.

My body finally forces itself into motion, as if someone took the handbrake off, and I lurch forward. "Lewis," I say, the gentle touch of my hand at odds with the urgency in my voice. "Wake up."

He starts into consciousness with a gasp, his eyes unfocused and blurred with sleep and tears. "Ruby?" he whispers after a brief hesitation. "What's going on?"

"You were having a bad dream," I explain, immediately wondering if I did the right thing waking him up. I remember once reading that you're not meant to disturb someone if they're sleepwalking; is it the same if they're having a nightmare?

He hurriedly swipes at his damp face and eyes, raising himself up onto an elbow. "Was I? I don't remember." He forces a grin. "You sure it wasn't a sex dream?"

"Not unless you have a misery kink." I sink down onto the floor so I'm almost face to face with him. "You don't remember it at all? You seemed really upset."

He shrugs. "My dream recall is non-existent, thankfully." But he won't look me in the eye, and his words ring false. I'm not going to force him to talk, though. I don't care that much.

"Liar!" The collective chorus of thoughts has returned with a vengeance. "You are both liars!"

"What are you doing up anyway?" he asks after a moment of tense silence. "Couldn't sleep? Case of the munchies? Or did you just really need a pee?"

"All of the above, probably." I actually do need the toilet, so I jump to my feet and nip away to the loo. When I return, Lewis has switched the TV on. I hadn't even noticed we had one - it was hidden behind a panel, and it's huge. This suite really is the prize that keeps on giving!

"You want to watch something? See if it helps tire you out?" His invite seems casual, but I can tell it's not. I can hear the apprehensive edge to his voice. Can see that, in my absence, he's pulled the leftover truffles and two bottles of water out of the fridge, cleared up his couch bed to create space for both of us. 

It's clear that he wants to spend more time with me. An invisible plectrum plucks at my heart strings, playing a song I can't quite identify.

"Might as well give it a try!" I reply airily, sinking down beside him. "Although usually the only English speaking channel you can find on holiday TV either contains news around the clock or constant American crime dramas. Either way, it'll be all doom and gloom before bedtime - probably not the best way to bring on sleep!" He laughs at my words as he pulls a t-shirt over his head.

Wait a minute!

"Are you wearing . . . Batman pyjamas?" I ask disbelievingly. Sure enough, on closer inspection, there's the Batman signal on the front of the top, and mini versions of it also printed on his shorts. Colour spreads up his cheeks.

"I usually just sleep in my boxers at home; I picked these up in Primark at the last minute. You know, part of that whole 'trying to be a gentleman' thing." He shakes his head in a self-deprecating sort of way. "To be perfectly honest, I was hoping you wouldn't witness me in them."

"They're cute," I giggle. He's cute. The blushing. The pyjamas. That admission. The love song playing in my head veers into power ballad territory.

Maybe it could have been like this all along.

I clock Lewis' eyes lingering appreciatively on my legs as I curl them underneath me and permit myself a secret smile. No matter what is happening here, it's actually nice to feel desired. Prior to this holiday, I hadn't felt like this in a long time. He realises I've noticed and clears his throat, looking away awkwardly and reaching for the remote.

He's nowhere near the ladies' man that I've always assumed him to be. He obviously knows his way around a mattress, that's for sure, but he's far sweeter than I ever gave him credit for. I'm starting to wonder if I've gotten Lewis Sheridan all wrong from the start.

He flips through channels, trying to find something that isn't Greek, and we laugh as the first channel we actually understand is indeed a news one. "All we need to do now is find CSI: Somewhere, and your European TV bingo card will be complete," Lewis jokes.

Instead, we happen across a random channel playing an older episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine. In English. "Score!" I cheer.

"You're a fan, too?" he asks, and I nod enthusiastically.

"I'm a fairly recent convert, but once I started, I was hooked. Will we watch this?"

"Go for it." He settles back beside me, and I'm very aware all of a sudden of how close we actually are. Mere millimetres from touching skin. It's a strange mix of comfortable and tense, all at once. As always, when it comes to us, it's never straightforward.

Within seconds, though, we're chuckling along with the show, thrown right into the episode as if we've been transported directly to the precinct. "This is one of those programmes where I can't ever settle on who my favourite character is," I tell Lewis as I reach for a truffle. "It changes on a daily basis. Sometimes, on a half-hourly basis, if I'm having a viewing marathon!"

"Same," he smiles. "Although I'm a massive Captain Holt fan, so if someone held a gun to my head and made me choose, he'd probably win."

"And he could probably also rescue you from the weird situation you've found yourself in where someone is forcing you at gunpoint to make that choice," I snigger. "Sorry, I've always found that expression so ridiculous!"

He rolls his eyes at me, but he's still grinning as he turns his head back to the TV. "It must be a really early episode," he observes after a moment. "Jake and Amy clearly aren't together yet."

"Ah yes . . . Now, there's a great example of a love-hate relationship," I say, almost without thinking, and I almost sense rather than hear his sigh.

"Did they ever really hate each other, though?" he asks eventually, and I know he's not talking about the two characters currently bickering on the screen in front of us.

I hesitate, biting into my truffle in an attempt to stall. But I can feel his eyes on me, watching me, and I know he's waiting anxiously for a response. Goosebumps steal across my flesh, leaving no nerve unturned. "No," I whisper finally. "I don't think they actually did. Not really."

He takes a deep breath. "I agree."

And, with that, we both turn our attention back to the TV. Pretend to keep watching while acting as if that seemingly incongruous moment didn't just happen.

But the chemistry crackling between us once again, and the fact our hands are suddenly intertwined, fingers curling tentatively around each other? Well, that tells an entirely different story . . .

I love them. That's all. 🩷