midnight rain @ifortom - Tumblr Blog

Crossing Lines - T.H.

Synopsis: On the brink of graduating in Law, you are torn between the expectations of a life planned by your family and the desire for freedom that begins to emerge. When you meet Tom, a young man with a dark past and an unexpected connection to your father, what starts as a forbidden attraction turns into something deeper. But the weight of family secrets and tough choices threaten to tear you apart, forcing you to fight for your own identity while challenging the rules that have always controlled you.

W/C: 20K+

The loud music vibrates through the concrete floor as if the entire building is about to collapse. The smell of beer, cigarettes, and sweat clings to your expensive skin and to the fabric of the dress, which clearly wasn’t made for this kind of place. An abandoned warehouse in East London, converted into an improvised "dance floor," full of faces that don’t know you and, honestly, would rather keep it that way.

You don’t belong here — and that’s exactly why you’re here. You’re tired of elegant ballrooms and dull conversations. You’re tired of waiting for your graduation as if counting the days of a sentence. Tonight, you wanted to disappear from your world and appear in another.

And that’s when you see him.

Tom.

In worn-out jeans, a tight black t-shirt clinging to his chest, and a plastic cup in hand. His usual messy hair, his pale eyes scanning the room as if looking for something... or someone.

He sees you.

For a second, everything around you seems to stop — the beat of the music, the flashing lights, even the air trapped in your lungs. And, for the first time since you’ve known him, his gaze isn’t calm, evasive, or cold. It’s worried.

As if your presence here isn’t just out of place. It’s dangerous. You smile, almost instinctively. But he doesn’t return it. He simply turns his face, takes a sip of his drink, and walks in the opposite direction. And you, of course, follow.

You make your way through the crowd with determined steps, the sound of your heels sharp against the stained floor. Some people glance at you, perhaps because your dress stands out, or maybe because your posture doesn’t fit in with this place. But you don’t care. All you see is him.

Tom stops near a metal staircase, in a darker corner where the music seems to vibrate less and the air feels heavier. He feels you approach before you even say anything. But he waits. As if giving you the chance to leave. You’re not going to.

"Do you usually come to places like this?" Your voice is firm, slightly provocative.

He slowly turns around, his eyes travelling from your heels to your eyes. The concern is still there, but now there’s something else. Something between suppressed anger and... curiosity.

"You shouldn’t be here," he replies, simple, direct. "What are you doing here?"

"Someone told me about the party. I decided to come." You shrug, as if it’s no big deal. But it is. He knows it. And you know he knows it.

"Does it bother you?"

He runs a hand through his hair, fingers coated with old grease that even soap doesn’t fully remove.

"It’s not a place for you," he says, jaw clenched. "If your dad finds out you’re here, it’s going to cause trouble."

You cross your arms, smiling with that touch of irony you’ve learned to use when people want you to leave a place.

"My dad doesn’t control me. And, with all due respect, Tom, neither do you."

His eyes narrow slightly. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t give any indication that he’s going to cave to your presence like so many others.

"There are people here who won’t think twice before causing trouble with someone like you," he says, taking a step closer to you. "You don’t understand this kind of environment. Or these people."

You raise your chin, provoking:

"And you’re one of these people?"

The silence between you two weighs heavily.

Finally, he answers, quietly:

"I try not to be. But sometimes blood pulls you in."

You don’t understand what he means — not yet — but the tension between you two is so thick it almost feels physical.

"I can take care of myself, Tom."

He leans in just slightly, his eyes on yours with raw intensity.

"I hope so. Because if anyone touches you here, it won’t be you who suffers. It’ll be me."

You’re still staring at Tom when you feel a presence stop beside you. Some random guy, wearing a loose jacket and a crooked smile, seems to have noticed the conversation.

"Look at this, Tom. I thought the rich family didn’t leave the castle." He laughs mockingly, eyeing you up and down.

Tom tightens his expression but doesn’t respond.

"And you, princess?" the guy goes on, stepping a bit too close. "Do you even know who you’re messing with?"

You frown — his tone isn’t just unsettling, it’s suggestive. Almost venomous.

"And do you know who you’re talking to?" you shoot back, dryly. He chuckles, but before he can say anything else, a girl — redhead, smudged makeup, a beer bottle in hand — walks over and steps between the two of you.

"Leave it, Jay," she says. "There’ll be enough shit when they find out he brought the posh girl into the den." She turns to you. Her eyes are sharp. "You do know who his brother is, right?" Your eyes widen for a moment.

Tom steps in before anyone can say more, his hand firm on the girl’s shoulder.

"Go home, Riley. Now."

She smiles — but not kindly. It's laced with venom.

"Just warning her. Before she finds out the hard way."

She walks off, swinging the bottle. Jay follows soon after, still chuckling under his breath.

You look at Tom.

"What the hell was that?" He doesn’t answer. Not yet.

His expression is more closed off than ever, jaw tight, eyes distant. But you know — there’s something. A secret hanging between you.

"Tom," you press. "Who’s your brother?"

"Not here," he replies, voice lower. "Come with me."

Without arguing, you follow him through a side door that leads out the back of the warehouse — a narrow corridor lit by old, flickering bulbs. The noise of the party is muffled now. The brick walls, dirty floor, smell of smoke — everything feels quieter. More private. He stops, leans against the wall, runs his hands over his face. You don’t speak. You just wait.

"Ezra," he starts, after a long silence. "He... made mistakes. But that’s none of your business."

You step closer, unafraid.

"Maybe not. But you are."

His eyes meet yours. There’s something between anger and desire in them. Like he’s been fighting this — fighting you — all along.

"You shouldn’t be here," he repeats, but his voice falters slightly. "You don’t know what I am. What I carry."

"Then show me."

You move in, slowly. The tension between you hums like electricity. He hesitates. For a moment, it looks like he might pull away.

But he doesn’t.

His hand moves to your waist. The touch is firm, warm. His breath brushes your skin when he speaks, almost a whisper:

"You’ve no idea what you’re doing." You smile, your lips nearly brushing his.

"Oh, I do."

And then he kisses you.

It’s intense. Heated. Like everything you’ve both been holding back has finally broken loose. The rough wall at your back, his hand at your waist, the urgency of his lips — it all says you’re crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed.

The kiss deepens. There’s no space for words now — only for hands reaching with urgency, for bodies fitting together as if they’ve known each other forever, even without ever having touched.

He presses you into the wall with his body, and his hand runs up your back, sliding over the fabric of your dress as if he’s trying to memorise the feel of you. You breathe him in — grease, tobacco, and something that’s only him — and everything else falls away.

There’s no party, no voices, no hesitation.

The urgency is shared. The kisses grow more desperate, more consuming — as if you’re both trying to outrun the world waiting outside that corridor.

You’re not thinking — and neither is he.

There’s no time for promises. Only desire. Only need.

And when it’s over — bodies still close, breaths still ragged — the silence returns. But it’s no longer comforting like before.

Tom pulls away first. Slowly. As though regret is dripping from his shoulders.

He avoids your gaze, tugs his T-shirt back into place and runs a hand through his hair with force, like he’s trying to erase what just happened.

"That was a mistake," he says. His voice is low, but firm.

Your heart tightens. You straighten up, adjusting your dress, clinging to whatever dignity you can while the anger starts to simmer beneath your skin.

"Is that all you’ve got to say after everything?"

He finally looks at you. His eyes are full of conflict.

"You don’t understand, love. I’m a bloke just trying to keep my head above water. And you… you’re everything that could drag me under."

You let out a short, bitter laugh.

"And yet you’re the one who came after me. Who kissed me. Who pinned me against the wall."

He shuts his eyes for a beat, as if every word from you hits him square in the gut.

"I shouldn’t have. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to…"

You feel the ground shift again — but this time, it’s not the music. He shakes his head.

"We shouldn’t do this again. We shouldn’t keep pretending there could ever be something between us."

You fold your arms, looking him dead in the eye.

"Bit late for that, Tom."

He hesitates. For a moment, it seems like he might apologise. Or say you’re right. But instead, he just turns and walks away.

Leaving you there — alone, surrounded by cold concrete and the scent of tobacco and iron, with the taste of him still lingering on your lips.

You’re still trying to steady your breath when you hear footsteps approaching down the corridor.

Quick steps. Purposeful.

Tom had already gone — leaving you alone in the cold concrete and the heavy silence — when she appeared.

A girl with her hair thrown up in a messy bun, smudged makeup, and a beer bottle in her hand. Leather jacket unzipped, worn-out boots, and a nose ring catching the light.

She stopped just a few steps from you, eyes far too sharp for someone merely “passing through”.

“He does that,” she said, before you even asked. “He touches, sparks something, then disappears like it never happened.”

You frowned, surprised.

“You know him?”

She took a sip of her beer, leaning her shoulder against the wall like she had all the time in the world.

“Known him since he was just ‘Ezra’s kid brother’. Now he acts like he doesn’t remember who he is. But no one round here forgets.”

She looked at you — really looked — like she could see right through the expensive dress and carefully held composure.

“You’re not from here.”

“Sharp one.” She smirked.

“Olivia. And you are?”

You hesitated. You weren’t used to this kind of person. The kind who doesn’t care what you’re wearing or who your father is. But there was something about her… real.

“Y/N.”

She nodded.

“Want a fag or some advice?”

You gave her a half-smile.

“Surprise me.”

She laughed — a rough, worn-out kind of laugh, like someone who’s seen far too much.

“So here it is: if you’re going to get burned by Tom Holland, at least know where you’re stepping. Because one thing I can promise you — he’s not just a bad boy with a tragic past. There’s real darkness in him. And it pulls under anyone who tries to save him.”

You hold her gaze for a moment. And there it is — the first warning.

But you already know you’re not going to listen.

“And how do you know Tom?”

A chill climbs the back of your neck. The question was blunt, no sugar-coating. Like she was trying to piece together a puzzle where none of the pieces fit.

“He works for my dad,” you reply, keeping your voice as even as possible. “Comes by the house sometimes. Fixing things. That sort of thing.”

Olivia lets out a low, almost sarcastic laugh.

“So that’s it. The posh girl giving the lad from the grease-stained overalls a bit of attention.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not as predictable as I look.”

She watches you for a second longer, then gives a half-smile. But it’s the kind of smile that carries weight.

“Didn’t say you were predictable. Just said you might get hurt.”

You feel a tightening in your chest. Because in that moment, you’re still warm from his kiss, dizzy from his touch, thinking this might actually be the start of something. But her words come like a warning. The kind that only makes sense later.

“He doesn’t talk much about himself,” you say, maybe more to yourself than to her.

“No, he doesn’t. But he doesn’t have to. Where we grew up, silence carries more history than any small talk ever could.”

She takes another swig, and her eyes soften a little.

“Seriously, Y/N. Be careful. Tom’s the kind of bloke who tries to protect everyone — except himself. And sometimes, when you get too close… he’ll shove you away with the rest.”

You swallow hard. But you don’t say anything.

You just file away her name. And that far-too-perceptive look.

Olivia.

The only person at that party who seemed to see all of you.

......

The day breaks overcast — typical London. The sky is grey, but inside you, everything is chaos.

You spend the morning with your head spinning. Every detail from the night before plays on a loop — his touch, the words, the silence that followed. The bitter taste of “that was a mistake” still clings to your throat. You’re not even sure it really happened.

Your father’s voice echoes through the house, coming from the garage.

“Tom, see if you can have a look at the brakes. They're acting up again.”

Your body freezes. You close the book you weren’t really reading and stand, walking to your bedroom window with your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

There he is. Tom.

Flannel shirt hanging open over a dark tee, sleeves rolled up, hands already stained with grease. He’s crouched by the car, focused — like last night never happened. Like he hadn’t touched you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

You watch him for a few seconds, trying to understand how he can look so... unaffected.

And then, as if he can feel your eyes on him, he lifts his head.

And sees you.

For a second, your eyes lock. It’s quick.

He looks back down like it meant nothing. Like you weren’t there. Like it was all a bad dream — or too good to be true.

But you’re not having that.

You head downstairs.

The sound of your footsteps on the marble floor, the cold morning air drifting through the side door of the house, the familiar smell of oil coming from the garage. He’s still there when you appear in the doorway, arms crossed and expression carefully held.

“Hi,” you say.

Tom doesn’t answer immediately. He finishes tightening a bolt, wipes his hands on an old rag, and only then looks up.

“Hi.”

Simple. Enough to make you angry.

“So that’s how it’s going to be now? You act like nothing happened?”

He sighs, getting up slowly, eyes on yours.

“I’m here to work, Y/N. Not to relive something we shouldn’t have done.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Funny. Didn’t feel so wrong last night.”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to leave you breathless.

“It wasn’t wrong because I didn’t want it. It was wrong because I can’t.”

“Do you always hide behind this ‘can’t’? Or is that just an excuse not to deal with how you feel?”

He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s fighting his own words.

“I’m not a clean guy, Y/N. My name carries weight. So does my past. If you get involved with me, you’re going to get hurt.”

You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to look away.

“I’m already hurt.”

The silence between you thickens again. But now, there’s something else. An open wound.

Before he can say anything else, your father’s voice echoes from the other side of the garage:

“Everything alright out there, Tom?”

He pulls back from you, his eyes avoiding yours again.

“Yes, sir. Just finishing up here.”

And then, just like last time, he turns his back. But now, you can tell he’s fighting just as hard as you not to come back.

…...

You didn’t expect a message from her. But there it was on your screen, eleven in the morning:

Olivia (Warehouse Party) “Was sober enough last night to catch the tension. If you want coffee and some truth, meet me at Neptune at 1pm. My neighbourhood. If you’ve got the guts.”

You hesitate. On one hand, she seems like the kind of girl who could steal your wallet without you noticing. On the other… she saw everything. And maybe she knows more than you’ll ever find out on your own.

The place is small, with the strong smell of burnt coffee and frying grease. Everything creaks — the chairs, the floor, even the waiter sounds like he’s cracking his joints as he walks past. But it’s alive. Full of chatter, loud laughter, and soft music coming from a broken jukebox in the corner.

Olivia’s already there. One boot on the bench, denim jacket covered in old band patches, and a wine-coloured lipstick smudged like she can’t be bothered to touch it up.

She gives you a once-over.

“Well, well. Princess left her castle.”

You smirk, taking the seat across from her.

“Just curious what the commoners are saying about me.”

She lets out a genuine laugh and tosses a sugar packet into your cup.

“I like you. There’s poison behind all that silk skin.”

You tilt your head, intrigued.

“How long have you known Tom?”

“Since he couldn’t tighten a bolt without busting his fingers.” She stirs her coffee. “His mum used to watch the street kids. She was sweet. He was always the quiet one. The kind who explodes silently.”

You lean your elbow on the table.

“And his brother?”

She pauses. The spoon keeps turning in the coffee longer than it should.

“Ezra’s… different. Always was. The type who made noise wherever he went. Yelled, punched, threatened. People were afraid of him. Some still are.”

You swallow hard.

“What did he do?”

Olivia leans her arms on the table, tilting toward you.

“Ezra was arrested for theft, assault, and… attempted murder. But the streets talk more than the papers. And the name ‘Holland’ — their surname — doesn’t wash away easily.”

Your heart starts to race.

“And Tom?”

“Tom’s always been his brother’s shadow. Always tried to clear his own name. But the blood’s the same, right?” She looks at you with narrowed eyes. “You think you’re stepping into a forbidden, dangerous romance? This isn’t a movie, princess. It’s real life. And here, the good guys sometimes have dirty hands too.”

You swallow hard.

“He’s not his brother.”

“No.” She leans back in her chair. “But he’s been beaten, he’s run, he’s hit back. He’s had to do shit to survive. And that leaves a mark.”

The waiter arrives with your coffee. You don’t drink it. You just hold the hot cup in your hands, trying to take it all in.

Olivia watches your silence, and before she stands, she says:

“Just don’t cry when he pushes you away. He always does that when he starts to care.”

You look at her.

“Why?”

“Because Tom believes anyone he loves always ends up getting screwed over. And maybe… he’s not wrong.”

She throws some coins on the table and walks off.

You sit there. The smell of coffee rising, her words spinning in your head, and his name caught on your lips.

Tom.

The days after the party were long.

You went back to your bubble. The house with hallways too white, where silence is only interrupted by the sound of fine cutlery against porcelain during dinner. Your mother asking about university with that passive-aggressive tone, as if every answer was some sort of test.

If your life were a grade on an invisible report card. Your father focused on his papers, always waiting for you to “keep up the posture.”

Graduation is near. The dress has already been bought. The invitations printed. Everyone expects you to smile and shine. After all, you’re the perfect daughter. The promise fulfilled.

But no one asks if you sleep well. If you’re breathing properly. If your heart still races when you think of someone with the scent of oil and dirt.

You spend your days going from the library to home, answering empty messages from coursemates, and ignoring your phone whenever it vibrates with a number that isn’t his.

Tom disappeared.

And you don’t know if that’s more annoying or predictable.

Sometimes, you pick up your phone and almost message Olivia. But you always delete it. You don’t know exactly what you’d say. And you’re afraid of what she’d reply.

So you pretend nothing happened.

You go back to studying. You go back to smiling in the right places. You go back to having lunch in silence with your family, pretending you don’t miss the hoarse voice of someone saying that all of this was too dangerous.

But at night, when you lie down, your eyes don’t close easily.

Your body still remembers his.

And the worst part is knowing he must be out there, somewhere. In the same neighborhood, perhaps walking through streets you’ve never stepped on. Fixing cars. Taking care of his mother. And avoiding you.

Because that’s what he chose.

And yet… part of you still waits.

You were sitting on a bench in the park near the university, book open on your lap, but your eyes lost somewhere between the sky and your own thoughts, when you heard the familiar voice:

“Are you studying or just pretending so no one comes near?”

You look up. Olivia.

A faded Joy Division t-shirt, a cigarette stub between her fingers, and a chewing gum on the corner of her mouth. She throws herself on the bench beside you as if you were old friends — and maybe, in some strange way, you really are.

“A little of both,” you reply, closing the book.

"I thought so" she clicks her tongue, looking around. "You’ve got that look, the one of someone about to scream but still worrying if it’ll seem improper."

You let out a low laugh, lacking humour.

"Is it that obvious?"

"To someone who's gotten used to swallowing their own scream, yes." She leans back on the bench, her eyes on the grey sky. "I know you’re trying to move on. Or pretending you’re not waiting for him to come back. But look… sometimes the problem isn’t the guy. It’s the world they’ve created for you to fit into."

You turn your face to her, surprised.

"And you think you know me that well?"

Olivia smiles, a bit sad, a bit knowing.

"I think you’re tired of being perfect. And maybe you’re ready to throw yourself into a place where no one cares if your hair’s in place or if your parents would approve of your choices." She looks at you sideways.

"There’s a party tomorrow. Nothing fancy. Just the folks from the neighbourhood, only the ones who matter. Loud music, cheap beer, and no one judging anyone. If you want… show up." You hesitate.

"A party like the last one?" She shrugs.

"Better. Smaller. No idiots hitting others for giving them the wrong look. Just broken people trying to laugh before the next punch life throws. You should try it. Who knows, maybe you’ll find yourself in someone else." You bite your lip, thoughtful. For some reason, you trust her. And you’re tired of denying what you feel just to stay within a display case.

"Send me the address." Olivia smiles, satisfied.

"I knew there was a crack in that porcelain. It’ll be good for you. I promise." She stands up, already leaving, and throws over her shoulder:

"Ah, and bring a jacket. It’s freezing in there with the windows open."

……

The clock on the wall reads 7:30 p.m. when you start getting ready. The dress you bought for graduation is tucked away at the back of your wardrobe, and you can’t even remember the last time you felt excited about it. Not today.

Today, the mirror reflects a more relaxed version of you, someone who doesn’t need approval, someone who just wants to be herself. The choice of dress is simple — black, without many details, but comfortable. Nothing that demands perfection. And, above all, nothing that demands control.

Your phone vibrates on the bed, a message from Olivia:

"Come later. No need to be on time. Just come with an open mind. And if anyone asks what you’re doing, pretend you don’t have an answer, because no one will ask."

You smile to yourself, slipping the phone into your bag, trying to hide the growing nervousness. It’ll be just one night. A night where you don’t have to be anyone, where no one will look at you as the heir to the perfect family. You can just breathe.

Then, you hear the sound of your bedroom door opening. Your mother appears in the doorway, the familiar expression of someone with a formed opinion before you even speak.

"Where do you think you’re going dressed like that?" She asks, her eyes fixed on the dress, but with that reproachful tone you know so well.

You turn to face her, forcing a smile.

"I’m just going out with some friends. It’s nothing major, mum." She raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing you.

"Friends? Really? You’re calling them 'friends' to go out looking like that? Don’t you know what kind of people are out there, Y/N? Or do you think it’s just some innocent fun?"

You swallow hard, avoiding her gaze. You know if you try to explain, the conversation will drag on to places you don’t want to go. You’d rather say nothing. Just… leave. No more explanations.

"It’s nothing like that, mum. I’m just going to hang out, I need a break from university. Get away from this routine for a while. I’m almost done with my degree, remember? I need to breathe." She steps a little closer, her voice firmer, sharper.

"And don’t you think you’re old enough to understand that sometimes 'breathing' can have consequences? I’ve seen this before, Y/N. Do you really think you can just go around doing whatever you want without thinking about the repercussions?"

You feel a tightness in your chest. Old enough? You're 23. Almost graduating. And yet, you still have to answer the same questions, the same accusations from those who treat you like a child.

You swallow the anger rising and respond, trying to keep calm.

"I know exactly what I'm doing, mum. I just want to have a different night. It won't be the end of the world."

Your mother still watches you for a moment, but says nothing. She simply crosses her arms and sighs, as if forcing herself to accept something she cannot change.

"Just be careful, Y/N. I don't know where you think you're going, but I can't feel at ease knowing you're just disappearing like this, without giving the slightest explanation."

You turn the key in your bag and approach the door, already knowing what you need to do, even without words.

"Don't worry." Your voice comes out calmer than you'd like, trying to show a confidence that isn’t genuine. "Goodnight, mum." She stands there, watching you leave, but says nothing more. The sound of your footsteps on the stairs is the only noise that echoes through the house.

You feel, deep down, the weight of being treated like a child, of having to ask permission just to be who you are. But, when you open the door and step out into the cold night, a part of you finally allows yourself to feel the sensation of freedom. Freedom. Even if it’s only temporary.

The street is deserted, except for a few parked cars and the soft light coming from a house at the end of the road. As you get closer, you hear the sound of soft music and muffled laughter, indicating that there’s more going on there than just a casual gathering. It’s a laid-back meet-up — nothing like the noisy party your mind had imagined, but something more inviting. Something... unexpected.

You stop at the door, hesitating for a moment before gently pushing it open. Inside, the atmosphere is simple: dim lighting, worn sofas, and walls covered in band posters, with more of an improvised, unpretentious décor. It’s not the kind of place your mum would ever approve of, but somehow, it feels like exactly what you needed.

Olivia is standing by the table, talking to a few people you don’t know. She waves when she sees you, and you feel a wave of relief. As you approach, she introduces you to a small group, all more relaxed, with genuine smiles on their faces, not in a hurry to pretend to be something they’re not.

"Guys, this is Y/N," she says with an almost mysterious smile. "The girl you're going to love, I promise."

The group smiles, a little more shy than Olivia, but welcoming. One of the boys, with messy hair and a leather jacket, extends his hand.

"Hey, I’m Jake. You can call me J if you prefer." You smile back, shaking his hand.

"Y/N. Nice to meet you."

They quickly start including you in the conversation, a mix of discussions about movies, music, and even philosophy — nothing too shallow, but also nothing too deep. It’s pleasant. Natural. There are no judging looks. No one is expecting you to fit in perfectly, but rather to enjoy yourself as you are.

As you approach the table, Olivia pulls you into a chair by the window, where the group begins to settle in. You observe, and the faces around you are calm, not the pressure of “important” conversations or the perfection you were used to. They just exist. And somehow, that’s comforting.

You stay for a while, talking about what seems to be everyone’s real life, where mistakes are natural, where the future isn’t a requirement but a consequence. The group doesn’t care if you’re lost or not. They’re just there, in the same position as you. Living the moment.

The conversation flows, and, as Olivia laughs a little more, you begin to feel like you’re actually in the right place. No one is pressuring you to fit in, no one is trying to make you be something you’re not. And there, in that small space, with cheap beer and calm music in the background, you begin to feel… lighter.

But, when your eyes drift away from the group, they automatically find Tom. He’s further back, sitting on a sofa near the window, with a bottle in his hand. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him in this space, but it’s the first time he seems so present, even in silence. He watches you for a moment, almost as if he’d been waiting for your arrival. But it’s not an invasive gaze. It’s… more like he’s measuring his words before speaking or the moment before getting closer.

Olivia seems to notice your distraction and gives you a wink.

"Don’t worry, he’ll give you time," she says, with an amused smile.

You let out a light smile, but still don’t know what to make of the idea of Tom being there, in a space where you can be who you are without worries.

The environment around you keeps flowing, the conversations intertwining, and for a moment, you feel distant from the life you were living up until then. But, as strange as it was, a part of you was starting to like this feeling.

The conversation continues to flow with laughs and relaxed stories. The atmosphere, although light, is far from tense. The people around you seem genuine, and even the music, which before seemed a little intrusive, now feels comfortable, as if it’s just there to accompany the rhythm of the conversations.

Olivia is by your side, laughing at a joke Jake made about an obscure 80s movie, but you’re more distracted, watching the party around you. Each person has something different: carefree laughs, relaxed expressions, freedom in its simplest forms. You take a deep breath, almost feeling that, for the first time, you’re free — and the thought gives you a slight sense of lightness.

That’s when someone approaches you, breaking your train of thought. A girl with red hair and eyebrow piercings offers you a cigarette with a mischievous smile.

"Hey, want to relax a bit?" she asks, holding the cigarette between her fingers, the sweet and strong smell of marijuana emanating from her hand. "I promise it’ll make you feel lighter."

You look at the cigarette, feeling the tension rise in the back of your throat. It’s not something you’ve done before. In fact, this is the first time you’ve found yourself in a situation like this, surrounded by people who clearly don’t care about what you decide. The thought of your mother, of what she would say, quickly invades your mind. Are you really willing to let go that much?

Olivia, noticing your hesitation, gives you a look and, with a quiet laugh, moves a little closer.

"Relax, Y/N. No one here’s going to judge you. It’s just a cigarette, a moment. If you don’t want to, that’s fine too. But if it’s your vibe, enjoy it. There’s nothing better than breaking the rigidity of a normal day." She takes a sip from her drink and tilts her head, as if inviting you to let go, to give the unknown a chance.

You feel the weight of Olivia’s gaze, waiting for an answer, but also the weight of the options opening up in front of you. The girl with the cigarette, still smiling calmly, doesn’t seem to pressure you. She’s just offering a possibility. The possibility of breaking something inside yourself.

You look at the cigarette again, observe the people around you, and for a moment, wonder how it would feel, what it would be like if you didn’t care. What would happen if you stopped worrying about standards and expectations, even your own self-imposed limits?

In the end, your curiosity wins, and you accept.

"Just for today," you say to yourself, with a light nervous laugh.

The girl with the red hair lights the cigarette and hands it to you, her smile wider now, almost as if she knows something has changed in you at that moment.

You take the first drag. The smoke enters and exits easily, but the warmth seems to spread quickly, hitting your head in a soft, light way. It’s not exactly what you imagined, but there’s something relaxing in the effect, something that starts to loosen your muscles, releasing the tension.

Olivia watches you with a mischievous smile.

"Now you’re in, Y/N. Welcome to the lighter side of life."

You laugh, not entirely sure of what you’re doing, but at the same time, feeling the effect begin to take hold of your body, as if the walls of your own mind start to crumble. She’s right: you never imagined you’d be here, with a cigarette in your hand, laughing and talking about simple things.

But something inside you feels a shift. Something you never had the chance to experience.

You feel Tom’s gaze again, distant, but now, somehow, different. He’s closer than before, more noticeable, as if he’s waiting for something. His gaze, somewhat curious, is on you, but says nothing. You, on the other hand, feel something new, a strange sense of understanding in the air, as if, somehow, he’s going through something too, though not quite sure what.

You smile, a little dizzy, but you don’t mind.

The music keeps pulsing, but now it feels more distant, as if it’s coming from somewhere beyond where you are. The effect of the marijuana spreads, smooth but inescapable. The colors seem more vibrant, the faces of the people friendlier, and the feeling of being here, in this space, starts to envelop you in a way you hadn’t expected.

Olivia, beside you, continues talking to the others, but her gaze stays on you, almost cautiously. She notices the shift in your posture, the way you’re letting go, carried by the lightness of the moment.

"See?" she says, with a wink. "Nothing like a little freedom to make you feel at home."

You laugh lightly, feeling the weight of her words but also the softness of the situation. The discomfort of your former life begins to seem far away. The pressure of being “the perfect daughter,” of always being in control, dissolves, and a side of you that you never allowed to show starts to loosen up, in tune with the music and the vibe of the room.

But Tom’s gaze never leaves your mind.

He’s still there, sitting in the corner of the room, watching everything. You notice him again, but this time, something in the air seems to change. It’s no longer just curiosity. There’s something more, something that makes you realize that, even with the alcohol and the marijuana flowing, he remains a distant, mysterious figure… and maybe, untouchable.

He has never come too close, never spoken to you, but now, each time your eyes meet, there seems to be a growing tension, something you can’t quite define.

You feel an urge to go to him, to approach him, but the fear of seeming strange, of being too forward, stops you from acting. But the feeling of being so close yet so far away is unsettling. You don’t fully understand what is happening, but his presence is everywhere.

''Hey, are you alright?'' Olivia asks, noticing your distraction. She also follows your gaze towards Tom, then back to you.

You don’t know how to respond. You’re not completely sure of what you’re feeling. It’s a mixture of excitement and insecurity, curiosity and fear. So, on impulse, you decide you don’t want to hide anymore. Maybe you don’t understand what’s happening between you and Tom, but at least you want to find out.

''I’m going to go talk to him."You say, more decisively than you feel. Olivia, with an approving smile, gives you a gentle push.

"Go on, Y/N. It’ll be fun to see what happens when you stop being who they think you are.''

You take a deep breath, and, despite still feeling that flutter in your stomach, you walk towards Tom, who watches you approach, his eyes fixed on you. He seems surprised, maybe even uncomfortable with your sudden move, but doesn’t look away. On the contrary, it’s as if he’s waiting for something.

When you reach him, the silence is brief, but heavy. The music in the background continues, but now it feels as though you both are in a small universe, separate from the rest of the party.

''Are you alright?'' Tom asks, his voice low, almost imperceptible, but with a softness you weren’t expecting.

You let out a nervous laugh, unsure of what exactly to say. His simple question makes you realise how much he has been watching you, how he is always there, even when he doesn’t speak. Like a constant presence in your line of sight, waiting for the right moment to reveal himself.

''I think... I’m fine'' you reply, not sure if you’re being honest or just trying to hide your nerves.

He nods slowly, still watching you. What seemed like a casual conversation suddenly becomes more intense, as if there’s something unsaid between you two. Something you may not be ready to understand.

"You… never told me what brought you here," Tom says, breaking the silence. He still holds his gaze on you, but his posture is more relaxed now, as if the distance between you is less oppressive.

You hesitate, looking at him for a moment, feeling that this conversation could be a turning point. And at the same time, you feel like you're about to do something that could change everything between you.

"I… just wanted something different. Something that wasn't… the same old thing," you say, your voice softer now. The honesty seems to push you out of a safe place, but at the same time, it relieves you.

Tom remains silent, but his gaze is now softer. He knows you're opening up in a way you never have before.

"You don't have to be what they want anymore, Y/N," he says, his voice calm but with a weight that makes you think. He seems to understand, in some way, what you're feeling.

You hold his gaze now, with more intensity, as if trying to understand who he really is, behind the facade of silence and mystery.

The conversation flows slowly, but with a growing tension, as if the words were waiting for the right moment to explode. And, in that moment, you know that, somehow, the night has changed.

Something was about to happen, something that could finally break the chains of your controlled life. The silence between you and Tom grows as he watches you, his gaze attentive, but distant enough to make you wonder what he is really thinking. The atmosphere of the party continues to flow around you both — laughter, conversations, and the music that seems to never stop. But somehow, everything feels like distant noise. In this moment, it’s just you and him.

Tom leans forward slightly, as if he's about to speak, but hesitates, watching the reaction on your face. The tension is palpable, as if the words he's about to say could change something important between you.

"Have you… always been like this, Y/N?" he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Always done what others expected of you?"

You feel a slight surprise. He's not just questioning your life, but something deeper. It's not about what you do, but how you feel about all of it. Your gaze meets his, and for the first time that night, you feel exposed, without the safety shield you've always had.

You don't answer right away. The weight of the question hangs in the air, and you feel the urge to protect yourself, to retreat, but something inside you won't let that happen. His gaze, so sincere and direct, challenges you to be honest. Maybe for the first time, you're being challenged to face your own life and choices in their rawest form.

"No…" you begin, your voice faltering for a moment. "Not exactly. I've always done what they wanted, or what I thought they wanted. Like… like there was no other option. It's not that I was forced, but… I always had to be the perfect daughter, the good student, the future successful lawyer. No one ever asked if that's what I wanted."

You take a deep breath, feeling the frustration build up. And in that moment, you realise something you’ve never thought about before. You've always been in control, but the control wasn’t yours.

Tom doesn’t look away. He simply listens, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. There’s no judgement, no expectation for a quick answer. He’s just there, listening to you, and it makes you feel something new. Something you don’t feel with anyone else.

He then gives a slight smile, which, instead of easing the tension, only intensifies it. He seems to have understood more about you than you can understand about yourself.

"Everyone has their own burden, Y/N," he says, his voice calm but with a weight of experience that makes you feel like he knows what he’s talking about. "No one ever asked me what I wanted. But sometimes life makes you follow a path that isn’t yours. And you stay trapped, until you decide to break those chains."

Tom's words echo in your mind. Break those chains. What does that really mean for you? What would breaking the chains mean in your life?

Before you can fully process what he said, Tom slowly and almost imperceptibly gets up, and you feel the urge to ask something, but the words don’t come. He simply moves away a little, looking around the party, and you’re left there, alone with your thoughts, trying to make sense of what just happened.

For a moment, you don’t know if he was just being polite or if there’s more to it, something you don’t yet understand. But what you feel now is a need to act, to do something to break the barrier between you two.

Olivia approaches you, her gaze curiously attentive, as if she knows what’s going on.

"He left you thinking, didn’t he?" she asks, almost conspiratorially. "Tom doesn’t give many explanations. But when he speaks, there’s always a reason."

You nod, still dazed from the conversation. But instead of retreating, something inside you wants more. Something inside you wants to understand what Tom means with those words, wants to understand what he is.

The music at the party seems more distant now, the laughter less noticeable. You’re more aware of your own body, the energy you’re consuming, and the way, suddenly, everything feels possible. And maybe, for the first time, you truly realise you can break the chains.

The people were dancing, laughing, completely carefree, as if they were far from any responsibility or obligation. You felt like a distant observer, someone who was there but didn’t belong.

In the background, a growing sense of anxiety began to consume you. You had never allowed yourself to live like this, never been someone who surrendered to such… freedom. The pressure of always having to maintain appearances, of being perfect, always controlled, always under the expectations of your parents, had left you in a state of mental exhaustion that now seemed to manifest physically. The contrast between what you saw around you and what you had always known was too much. These people were so free, so at ease, and here you were, trapped by your own thoughts and responsibilities.

As the rhythm of the party intensified, you felt a wave of heat spread through your body. Your heart started to race, your breath became uneven, and you began to feel the weight of being there, the pressure of being watched. Something inside you screamed to escape, but your legs didn’t respond the way you wanted them to. The discomfort grew with every passing second, and the feeling of suffocation took over.

You slowly pulled away, trying to get out of the circle you found yourself in, searching for a quiet corner, away from curious stares, from laughter, from people who seemed too free. The tension inside you was unbearable, and your body no longer obeyed. Your mind spun, everything seemed to blur. The walls of the house seemed to close in, and you felt smaller and smaller, as if you were losing control. The heat increased, and before you could react, your vision started to blur.

And then it came. The sensation you feared, the one you never liked to admit existed. The lack of air, the desperation, the trembling hands. A panic attack. The people around you didn’t seem to notice, or maybe they didn’t care, but for you, the world was spinning too fast.

You stumbled further, trying to find some relief, but the feeling of being completely alone was overwhelming. As if, in the middle of all that freedom, you were more trapped than ever. That’s when you heard a familiar voice, a presence approaching quickly. Your vision was still blurry, but it wasn’t hard to identify who it was. Tom.

He was there, suddenly, in front of you. His expression was one of genuine concern, but there was something else as well. Discomfort. He clearly didn’t know how to handle the situation, and that surprised you a little. Tom, who always seemed so sure, so grounded, now looked completely unsettled.

"Y/N…" he calls, his voice softer, almost as if he feared scaring you even more. "What happened? I… I told Olivia this wasn’t a good idea."

You try to breathe deeply, but the lack of air only worsens. Every time you try to speak, the words get stuck. And in that moment, all you feel is the panic growing, as if the house was crumbling around you. His hands approach, but you can’t tell if he wants to help you or if he’s just lost, trying to understand what’s happening.

"I don't…" you try to say, but your voice comes out almost inaudible. You feel your chest tighten, and you can no longer keep control. Tom’s eyes, though trying to convey calmness, are filled with visible frustration.

He seems unsure of what to do, his discomfort clear in his movements. He takes a step back, hesitates, and then appears to make a decision. He extends his hand to help you stay on your feet, but at the same time, he doesn’t seem to want to invade your space.

"Stay calm, okay?" he says softly, but seriously, clearly worried. "Just breathe, Y/N. I didn’t… I didn’t think it would be like this, but it’s okay, alright? Let’s get out of here, it’ll be better."

Despite his attempt to reassure you, the fact that he’s so out of his element makes you realise how different things are now. Before, he was always someone who seemed to have everything under control, someone who watched you with curious eyes. But now, he seems as lost as you. The difference is, unlike you, he’s there trying to help in some way.

You take a deep breath, trying to pull yourself together, but the words are still hard to find. Deep down, you feel like you shouldn’t be here, but somehow, Tom’s presence brings you a faint sense of security. It’s not complete, it’s not comfortable, but it’s something.

"I… I need to go home," you finally manage to say, almost in a whisper, your mind still clouded by the anxiety.

Tom hesitates for a moment, evaluating the situation, and then, without saying anything more, he positions himself to guide you to the exit. What he doesn’t realise is how much his protective behaviour confuses you even more. That gesture of concern, of care, blends with the vulnerability you’re feeling. You don’t know what to expect from Tom, but somehow, his presence makes you feel a little less alone.

…...

Tom’s car was silent, except for the soft sound of the engine and the low, almost imperceptible music. You sat in the passenger seat, your body still tense, your hands nervously intertwining. The discomfort hadn’t completely faded, and the view of the night outside the window seemed blurred, as if the world was still fogged by the anxiety that had consumed you at the party.

You glanced briefly at Tom, who was driving with his hands firmly on the steering wheel, his gaze focused on the road. The tension in the air was palpable, but at the same time, his presence felt unexpectedly comforting. Something inside you wanted to break the silence, to understand what was happening between you two, but at the same time, you felt too fragile to start any conversation.

Tom, in turn, was clearly uncomfortable. He kept his eyes on the road for a moment, but every now and then, he furtively glanced at you with an expression hard to decipher. There was clear concern, but also a hint of frustration, as if he was trying to understand why things had taken this turn.

"I didn't think it would be like this..." His voice finally cut through the silence, soft and cautious, as though he was trying not to scare you further. He hesitated slightly before continuing. "I told Olivia that this party wasn't a good idea, you know. I... I thought it might be too much for you."

His tone was serious, but also laced with a gentleness you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a reprimand, but rather a statement, something he wanted you to know, perhaps as a way of apologising for the situation.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the disorientation still lingering in your chest. His words were kind, but you couldn’t help but feel... different. Vulnerable. As if, in some way, he was watching and silently judging you, even though his intention was to help.

"I..." you began, but your voice faltered slightly. "I didn’t know what to expect, Tom. I’ve always been... controlled. Everything always seemed to have its place, you know? I... I never felt free to just, I don’t know, do something for myself. And being there, in that environment... it was strange. I don’t know if I was ready for it."

The words came out in a quiet thread of voice, lacking strength, as if you were admitting something you’d never said to anyone. The truth was, at that moment, you didn’t know how to deal with your own feelings, and the confusion overwhelmed you.

Tom, upon hearing this, kept his eyes on the road for a moment, but it seemed he understood what you were trying to say. The way he breathed out eased some of the tension, as if he knew you were just trying to make sense of what happened, just like he was.

"I didn’t know it was that difficult for you," he said, his voice carrying a sincerity you hadn’t heard from him before. "I just thought, somehow, you’d feel okay there. But if I’d known, I would’ve tried a different way."

You let out a deep sigh, and despite all the confusion inside you, you felt a small wave of gratitude for him saying that. He wasn’t there to pressure or judge you. He was simply trying to understand.

The road seemed long, and the silence stretched for a few more minutes, with Tom focused on the road and you still trying to sort your thoughts. Finally, you broke the silence again, hesitant but feeling the need to be honest.

"I..." you began, calmer now, although the vulnerability was still there beneath the surface. "I’m grateful you helped me. I just... don’t know what I’m doing with my life, Tom. Everything is so... controlled, you know? Since I was little, everything had its place. And now, with graduation coming up, with the idea of moving out of my parents' house... I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be... myself."

Tom, who had been quiet until that moment, seemed to reflect on the words you had spoken. He didn’t look directly at you, but his expression subtly shifted, something between understanding and contemplation, as if he were really listening.

"Sometimes, we get stuck in all of this," he said, his voice a little softer now. "In doing things the 'right' way. But nobody has the slightest idea of what they’re doing. No one has everything figured out, you know. Me, for example… I never imagined my life would be like this. And if someone had told me it would be, I never would’ve believed them."

You watched him briefly, unsure how to interpret the sincerity of his words. He spoke with a raw clarity, like someone who had been through many ups and downs, and somehow, that made you feel like maybe he had more in common with you than you’d imagined. Both of you, in some way, trapped by the expectations others had for you.

The car finally slowed as he neared your house, and the tension between the two of you was still there, like a thin thread that somehow connected you. The silence was heavy but comfortable. You could feel the rapid beat of your heart, the growing desire to understand what was happening between you. The world outside seemed distant, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped inside the car. There was only the two of you.

Tom made a motion to stop the car and, for a moment, didn’t move. His gaze was still fixed on the road, but something about the way he sat was different. He seemed a little more tense, a little more distant, like he was trying to protect himself from something. But inside, you felt a restlessness, something that pulled you toward him in a way you couldn’t control.

You looked at him, his face illuminated by the soft light of the dashboard, and for a second, the two of you stayed there in silence.

He was so close, and you felt the growing impulse, something you weren’t sure was fear or desire. But at the same time, it felt like nothing else mattered. What you wanted, what you felt, seemed more important than anything that had ever happened between you.

Before he could say anything else, you leaned toward him. Your breath was uneven, but your movement was decisive. Your lips met his in an intense kiss, a hot, urgent impulse. He seemed surprised at first, but quickly let himself be swept up in the intensity of the moment. One hand stretched toward the steering wheel, and with the other, he touched your waist, as if trying to keep you close, near him.

The chemistry was palpable. The kiss was full of urgency, a release of repressed desire, something the two of you had kept hidden for so long. But then, in the midst of it, Tom stopped. His hand slowly pulled away from your waist, and with a soft sigh, he drew back from you, his eyes meeting yours, now filled with a kind of confusion you didn’t know how to interpret.

"Y/N..." His voice came out hoarse, almost like a warning. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath, but there was something more. An invisible line he didn’t want to cross.

You stayed there, feeling the heat in the car still lingering, but now heavy with growing discomfort. What was happening? Why had he stopped? You knew he wasn’t the kind of person to give in easily, but a sharp wave of frustration hit you. You were so vulnerable, so exposed, and even he — despite everything — seemed hesitant.

"I don’t..." Tom began, his expression confused. "I can’t do this, Y/N. It won’t work, you know it. I... I’m not who you think I am."

The air inside the car felt thicker. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to react. For a moment, the outside world seemed to vanish completely. But reality soon began to creep back in.

You took a deep breath and, without looking at him, opened the car door. The sound of metal closing echoed into the night’s silence. The cold breeze hit your face as you walked away from the car, not looking back. Tom remained there, unmoving, silent, as if he knew this was an inner battle he couldn’t win.

......

The street was quiet when Tom parked the truck in front of the house. The nearest lamppost flickered, casting uneven shadows over the cracked pavement. He sat there for a while, hands still on the steering wheel, as if letting go would make it all real.

You had kissed him.

He closed his eyes. The memory came back sharp: the warmth of your skin, the sweet taste of the kiss, the expensive perfume still clinging to his shirt. He had wanted it. Craved every second of it. And yet… he’d stopped. Because it was wrong. Because it made no sense. Because someone like him had no place in your world — and vice versa.

Tom let out a sigh, opened the door and stepped inside the house. His mum was already asleep, as usual. The kitchen lights still on cast a soft, tired glow across the worn floor. He grabbed a beer and dropped himself into the plastic chair out back — the same old one. The London sky hung dull, smothered by clouds.

He leaned back, staring into the dark. He knew he’d dream about you— the way youlooked at him, yourlost eyes at the party, the way you left the car without saying a word. He shouldn’t have let it happen. But a part of him, the most dangerous part, wanted it to happen again.

His eyes fell on an old photo frame propped by the door. Him and Ezra, years ago. Two brothers, two grease-stained smiles. Now it was just him out there, trying to hold the world on his back.

"You’d have laughed in my face, mate," he muttered, taking another sip. "A girl like her? Never."

But there was no laughter in him.

Only a knot.

And that ridiculous urge to get even closer than he should.

The engine gave a strained groan as Tom pulled up outside that house — too big, too guarded, too clean. The kind of place that always seemed to belong to another world. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight in his shoulders. He didn’t know if he’d see you, but something in his chest was already bracing itself — whether to confront or to run.

The front gate was ajar, as usual. Your dad was tinkering with some machine in the garden and shouted something about a belt. Tom gave a small wave and went straight to work. He tried to keep his mind on the job, but the scent of the house, the glow from the garden lights — everything screamed yourname.

And then, he felt it.

He didn’t need to look up to know you were there. But he looked anyway.

You were standing at the doorway, holding a cup you didn’t seem to be drinking from. Your eyes met his with a quiet force. There was no smile. No expression at all. Just a thick, brutal tension that needed no words.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Tom had had his head buried in the engine long enough to almost forget what had happened the night before. His hands were dirty, shirt stained with oil, and he was doing his best to focus. But ever since you'd appeared at the doorway, silently watching, something inside him had been restless.

Your father emerged behind him, his steps heavy and deliberate — the kind that always meant he wanted to be noticed. He stopped by the car and crossed his arms, studying Tom with intent. A few seconds of silence passed.

"You’re acting odd, Tom." His voice was low but firm. "Something happen?"

Tom didn’t reply right away. He grabbed a rag, slowly wiped his hands, avoiding the man’s eyes.

"Just tired. It was a long night."

"Hm." Your dad clicked his tongue, stepping closer. "Funny. My daughter’s acting strange today too. Quiet. Distracted. Makes me wonder if the two of you had the same long night."

Tom stopped. He gripped the rag tighter than he should have. Her father was staring straight at him now — the kind of stare that didn’t ask questions, only made statements.

"She’s a good girl, Tom," he went on. "Smart. She’s graduating in a few months. Her life’s just beginning."

Tom raised his eyes, and for a moment, met the man’s gaze. Not with anger. With the weight of someone who already knew what was coming.

"I know."

"Then know this too — there are places that don’t mix." The man’s voice was low, like he was speaking some old, unshakable truth. "I respect you. You work well. But don’t mistake kindness for permission."

Tom nodded. Just once. He didn’t say a word. And went back to the engine.

But inside, the anger burned slow. Not because he’d been confronted. But because deep down, he knew — in that world, he would always be the bloke with dirty hands who ought to know his place.

And no matter how hard he tried, some part of him… didn’t want to know.

The days dragged on, as if time had lost its rhythm.

You woke up, got ready, went to uni, came back home, smiled politely at dinner — everything just as it had always been. But something inside you had cracked that night. A silent fracture no one else could see. Your parents kept talking about graduation, mentioning internship opportunities at prestigious firms, making plans for a future that had always seemed like yours. Only now… it didn’t feel like it anymore.

You tried to focus, but everything felt muffled. Boredom turned into anxiety. The silence in your room weighed like concrete. Sometimes, you walked past the window just to glance at the gate, wondering if he would come. But Tom didn’t show up. Not for days.

Until he did.

Your dad mentioned it casually over dinner — Tom had turned down two jobs in a row. Said he was ill, then that he was busy. Now he wasn’t even picking up the phone. He muttered something about "people who can’t separate personal life from work" and went back to talking about the new pool pump. But you felt it — that twist in your stomach.

That night, the insomnia hit harder. You lay in bed, head spinning with doubts, images, the taste of him still lingering on your lips. The world felt smaller, as if all the walls were closing in around you.

And then… a sound.

You sat up slowly. A soft creak coming from the veranda. For a second, your heart leapt — until a silhouette appeared under the faint light outside.

Tom. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets and an expression that seems to apologise before he’s even said a word. His beard is unshaven, hair messy. Nothing about him looks deliberate, yet everything about him feels urgent.

You open the veranda door, heart in your throat.

"I should’ve walked away," he says, before you can even ask what he’s doing there. "I tried."

You don’t say anything. You just look at him.

"But... I couldn’t stop thinking about you."

The silence between you hums like a dull heartbeat. He glances around, uncertain, and asks quietly: "Can I come in?"

You step aside, making space. And as he walks past you, the air in the room changes completely.

Tom moves slowly towards the centre of your room, eyes scanning everything as if unsure where to land. You close the door gently behind you, as if the sound might wake not just the house, but the reality beyond it.

"Are you alright?" he asks, not quite meeting your eyes. His voice is low, rough, as if each word is weighed before it’s spoken.

You pause. You want to say yes. That you’re fine. That everything is perfectly under control. But the truth is different.

So you simply say, "No."

He finally looks at you, and there’s something in his gaze that burns — a mix of guilt, longing, and something barely contained.

"That night..." you begin, stepping closer. "You left like you’d done something wrong."

"Didn’t I?"

You frown. "Wrong for who?"

He looks away. Walks over to the window, where the streetlight casts shadows across the floor. He seems to be fighting something within himself.

"This..." he gestures vaguely between the two of you, "This shouldn’t be happening."

"But it is happening."

He lets out a heavy sigh, like he’s tired of denying the obvious. Yet still, he avoids touching you. Avoids the impulse.

"You’re from a different world. Literally. Your dad nearly ripped my soul out the other day just with a look."

You sit at the edge of the bed, watching him calmly.

"And what exactly do you think I am? Fragile? Spoilt? That I’ve never done anything because I wanted to?"

Tom opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

"I know where you live, Tom. I know about your brother."

Silence.

The words hang in the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. He turns suddenly, jaw tight.

"Don’t talk about Ezra."

You didn’t expect that reaction. But you don’t step back.

"I’m not judging."

"Everyone judges." He runs a hand down his face, weary. "And if they don’t, they use. This isn’t a conversation for now."

You realise you’ve touched a wound still raw — maybe one that never healed. So you stand, take a step closer to him.

"Alright. Not now."

His eyes soften for a moment, as if thanking you for not pushing. There’s a space between you that still pulses with tension, but now it’s more heat than conflict.

"Why did you come here, Tom?"

He meets your eyes, finally unafraid.

"Because not being able to forget you was worse than anything I thought might happen if I came back."

Your heart skips. The whole room seems smaller now, crushed by everything left unsaid.

And he’s still there.

And for the first time, it feels like he wants to stay. He’s still there.

Standing still, as if every second spent looking at you is an internal battle. As if moving closer would mean giving in to something he’s spent days trying to bury. But you’ve come too far to back down now.

With slow steps, you close the space between you. His eyes follow yours, intense, like they’re begging you not to come any closer — while every inch of his body begs for the opposite.

When your hand touches his chest, the air seems to vanish for a moment. Your fingers trail slowly over the rough fabric of his grease-stained shirt, until they find skin at the open collar. His chest rises and falls steadily, like he’s holding something back.

"Tell me to stop," you whisper.

Tom closes his eyes for a second. His hand comes to rest on your hip, firm but restrained. He’s trembling slightly. You feel it.

"I should," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "But I won’t."

And when he kisses you, there’s no more restraint. Only need.

His mouth meets yours with hunger and urgency, yet with a desperate care, as if he’s trying to memorise every movement. His hands travel up your back, pulling you closer, your bodies fitting together like there’s no other place in the world you belong.

You cling to him like someone clinging to a dangerous secret — and maybe it is.

Clothes begin to give way under slow, careful touches, as if every layer falling between you is another wall crumbling. The world outside ceases to exist. The pressure of the perfect house, the family name, the expectations... all of it melts away in the heat of your bodies entwined.

In the dim light of the room, where only shadows move, what’s forbidden stops being a sin. It becomes relief. It becomes truth.

And for a while, nothing else matters.

This time, he didn’t vanish.

The next morning, when you wake with the taste of the night still on your lips, you find a message on your phone: "Are you up?"

Simple. Brief. But enough to make your heart race.

You reply. And he shows up.

Not through the balcony. Through the side of the house, as if he already knew the paths the world should never allow — but you do. The unlocked gate, the slightly open window in the living room. No one notices. He enters the silence of your routine like an offbeat. And you get used to it far too quickly.

In the following days, he shows up whenever he can. A visit in the late afternoon, a glance exchanged in the garage when he comes to deliver tools for your father, a stolen kiss in the laundry room of the house. All hidden, but growing more intense each time. As if the urgency of before had turned into a necessity.

The atmosphere between you two shifts. It's no longer doubt. It's surrender. And strangely, it feels more dangerous now that you're trying to make it work.

"You know this isn't going to end well, right?" he whispers against your skin one night, with you sitting on his lap, hidden behind your father's workshop.

"I know." And you kiss his lips before any more rational thought can interfere.

You begin to lie better. Go out more. Invent commitments. And at the same time, you feel a freedom you’ve never experienced before. Being with Tom is like breathing after years of holding your breath. He changes too. He speaks little, but observes more. He listens to you attentively, holds your hand when you're nervous, and smiles that crooked smile when you tease him.

But there's something in his eyes — a certain weariness, a tension that's yet to be named. And although you’ve both surrendered… the risks still lurk.

The sun had already started to set when Tom sent the message.

"I'm going to pick up some parts in Wembley. Want to come?"

You didn't think much about it. You shot off some excuse to your mother and left before she had time to ask more. Ten minutes later, his car stopped at the corner, and you got in with the same natural ease of someone who has always belonged there.

Now, you’re in an abandoned parking lot behind a scrapyard — a place ugly, quiet, but strangely peaceful. Tom laid a blanket over the car’s bonnet, opened a beer, passed you one. The soundtrack is the radio crackling with something old, maybe blues.

You lie down beside him, the sky starting to darken, the stars timidly appearing through the clouds over London.

"Have you ever thought about leaving here?" you ask, turning your face towards him.

Tom takes a moment to reply. He looks at the sky, the beer in his hand.

"Every day."

"And why won’t you leave?"

"Because not everyone can just… leave. Someone has to stay and take the crap." He looks at you, serious. "But you… you will."

You smile, a little bitter. "I’m not so sure."

He leans in, his hand slowly caressing your waist, as if he knows he can’t have everything, but will take what he can while he can.

"You’ve got too much fire to stay trapped."

The kiss comes after the silence. Calm at first, but it quickly transforms. As if the world is suspended there. Hands fit together, bodies recognise each other. You sit on top of him, the cold metallic bonnet contrasting with the heat between you.

This time, it’s not about urgency. It’s about wanting. About choosing. You undress slowly, with the care of two people who have finally found some kind of home in each other. It doesn’t matter where you are. Or what will happen next. In that moment, there’s only you and him.

Breathing together. Losing yourselves together. And, for a few hours, being just that.

......

The muffled sound of voices echoes from the study as you enter the house. The door is slightly ajar, the smell of expensive whisky and polished wood wafts down the hall as a reminder of the place you grew up — elegant, calculated, impeccable.

Your father is inside. In a suit, even at home, as if he didn’t know how to exist any other way.

He gestures calmly, but every word he says carries the weight of a sentence. Sitting across from him, a man you vaguely recognise from the papers — a businessman or politician, hard to tell. The two of them talk about strategy as if they’re playing a game of chess, not discussing someone’s life who may or may not be guilty of a serious crime.

"The press will come down hard," your father says, swirling his whisky glass. "But if we act first, we can control the narrative. The judge has a history of accepting deals when pressured with inconsistent evidence."

It’s always been this way. Manipulate. Anticipate. Win.

You step back before he notices you’re there, but you’ve heard enough: the same tightness in your chest, the feeling of living under a roof where everything is image, everything is control. Where feelings don’t fit — only results.

And as you climb the stairs, only one image comes to mind: Tom, leaning over the bonnet of a car, grease on his hands and truth in his eyes. The complete opposite of everything that office represents. But also, the very thing your father would never accept.

Dinner is set up as always: cutlery neatly arranged, white plates, glasses perfectly in place. Your mother sits beside you, silent, her face impeccably neutral. Your father sits across from you, reading something on his phone before finally lifting his eyes and locking them with yours.

"I received a call from the college counsellor this afternoon." You freeze in the middle of bringing your fork to your mouth. "About your absences. And your grades. They’re… dropping. Considerably, over the last two months."

The silence is heavy. Your mother continues eating as though she’s not even there.

"I just… had a tough few weeks," you reply, trying to keep your tone controlled.

"Tough?" he repeats with a dry laugh. "Tough why? Why have you been going out so much? Why don’t you sleep at home some nights during the week? Why have you been hanging out with people we don’t even know?"

You lower your eyes. But the blood boils.

"I’m 23."

"And you still live in this house. You still use our name. You’re still under our responsibility. So tell me, you, what’s going on?"

The way he says "you," almost as if he doesn’t recognise you, hits like a slap. He doesn’t want to know. He wants control. And he feels like he’s losing it.

"Nothing you’d really care about," you snap, without thinking, and the tension explodes right there, between the barely cooked meat and the expensive crystal.

He slams his napkin down on the table.

"I built all of this to give you the best. And you throw it away? Why? For someone?" You stand up, your heart pounding.

"For me."

And you leave. Without asking permission. Without looking back.

You don’t exactly remember how you left. If you grabbed the keys. If you said anything. You just know that the door slammed behind you, and for the first time, the air felt lighter on the outside. You walked without thinking much. Ordered a car. Didn’t respond to your mother’s messages. Didn’t even want to open the group chat for university.

You just wanted a place where you didn’t have to pretend. The car stopped on a dark, narrow street, with flickering streetlights and houses all looking the same: old bricks, low gates, an odd silence. You got out, looked around, hesitated for a moment. But your feet already knew the way.

Tom opened the door with a furrowed brow, as if he’d been expecting it to be you — yet surprised that it was you.

“Olivia called me,” he said, softly. “She said you sent a message. That you were exhausted. That you seemed... at your limit.”

You didn’t answer. You just stood there, frozen. A little trembling, a little dazed. Until he stepped back.

“Come in.”

The place was small, messy. An old sofa, tools scattered in a corner, the smell of old coffee and grease in the air. And yet, it felt safer than your entire house.

You sat on the sofa as if you didn’t know how to exist standing anymore. He kneeled in front of you.

“What’s wrong?” Tom asked. “What happened?”

You tried to speak. Your throat closed. For a moment, you just shook your head. Then the rest came — slowly. Your voice was thick, your face hot, your eyes burning.

“He thinks I’m his property. That I have to be perfect. That my life is an extension of his career. He doesn’t even see me.”

Tom stayed silent. His hands were on your knees, firm, but gentle. As if holding something too precious to squeeze.

“You don’t belong to anyone,” he said. “And no one has the right to erase who you are.”

It was there. In that simple sentence. That’s when you broke. The crying came, raw, ugly, painful. But for the first time, someone held you without asking for explanations. Tom didn’t try to fix anything. He just stayed. With you, for you.

When the silence returned, he pulled you closer. You let him. You stayed there, lying on the narrow sofa, your back against his chest, your legs intertwined, the world outside far away.

And for the first time, you slept deeply. Because for the first time, you felt free.

When you wake up, the smell of coffee is in the air. Tom is in the kitchen, making something simple, maybe coffee with milk and bread. The place is still in chaos, but there’s something comforting about the way he moves from one corner to another.

You stretch on the sofa, still with the feeling that the world outside doesn’t have access to this refuge. The small, but peaceful place has become a safe haven for you, away from the demands of your house and the pressure of a life that doesn’t understand you.

Tom looks at you, and a soft smile forms on his lips, as if, for a moment, you had left the weight of the days behind.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, in a gentle tone.

You just nod, still processing the night. The conversation you had with him, the security you felt being there.

But before the comfortable silence between you can linger, Tom’s phone rings. He furrows his brow, grabs the phone from the counter, and quickly glances at the screen.

“I need to take this, sorry,” he says, his voice tense.

You watch as he steps away to take the call, and you feel a slight unease in the air. It’s not like he’s someone with many friends, and suddenly his serious tone seems to pull him away from you a little, even if unintentionally.

The conversation is short, but what you hear leaves you unsettled. He talks to someone about a client, but there’s something in his voice that sounds different. Heavier. When he hangs up, he stands there for a moment, looking at the phone with a distant expression.

You feel the tension in the room grow, as if the refuge of the previous night had disappeared for a moment. Tom looks at you, but he seems to hesitate. He walks over to the sofa, stands up, hands in his pockets, looking… uncomfortable.

“That was about my brother,” he finally speaks. “He… my brother Ezra, he’s involved with legal problems again. I didn’t want to tell you about it now, but… it’s complicated.”

You sit up straight, your heart beginning to race.

“Legal problems?” you ask, trying to understand, but also feeling that he’s not entirely comfortable sharing.

He shakes his head, stepping back slightly.

“I don’t want you getting involved with this,” he says. “I… I’m not good at dealing with it, or with him.”

The silence between you stretches on. The tension builds, and you feel a mix of anger and confusion. Not about what he said, but about what he’s not saying.

“It’s not just that, is it?” you ask, standing up. Your tone is soft, but you realise you’re starting to lose control over the calm you tried to maintain.

He seems to shrink, his gaze avoiding yours.

“I… I really didn’t want to involve you in all of this. I…” He stops, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what to do, you know? The situation with my brother is just getting worse, and I’m here not knowing what to do with my own life.”

You watch him, trying to understand what’s going on inside him. Then, there’s that silent moment. You don’t know whether to step away or to pull him closer. But you know something has changed. He looks at you, his face a little tired, as if expecting you to say something.

“Tom…” you begin, your voice sounding softer than you expected. “I’m not going to run away from you. Or from what you carry.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glisten, maybe with a mix of relief and frustration.

You step forward, but something prevents both of you from getting closer. A silent space forms between you, something that still needs to be broken. Something that goes beyond words. The conversation between you lingers in the air, but it’s not resolved. The silence that follows is heavy with tension, hard to ignore. Tom is still standing, his hands in his pockets, trying to digest the words you just spoke. His gaze is distant, as if preparing to pull back. He doesn’t know how to handle the intensity of the moment.

You also feel the distance growing between you, stronger than before. What had seemed like such a simple bond begins to unravel as the conversation unfolds. You notice the subtle change in his posture, in the way he looks at you — not with the same closeness, but with an unspoken concern.

You can’t take the silence anymore. You need an answer. But instead of pressing him further, you decide to pull away.

“I need some time, Tom,” you say, your voice quieter than you’d like, but determination still showing through. “I don’t know what I’m doing with all of this. And I think you don’t know either.”

He stays there, quiet, unsure how to react. His eyes meet yours, but instead of coming closer, he takes a step back.

“I…” He seems to hesitate, then shakes his head with an exhausted sigh. “I don’t want to hurt you. But… I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t give you everything you deserve right now. I can’t.”

You feel a knot tightening in your chest, but you stay focused. Something inside you wants to react, shout, demand answers, but at the same time, you know this conversation can’t be forced. The insecurity between you both is palpable.

“I’m not asking you for anything but the truth, Tom. I just want to know what you want, because I can’t stay on the fence much longer. I need more than this,” you say with a firmer tone, but inside, you’re confused, trying to understand where all of this is going.

The silence between you stretches on, heavier than before, and the distance seems to increase.

“I know I’m being an idiot,” he says, finally breaking the silence, but his voice is heavy with frustration. “I just don’t want this to end badly. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

But you don’t believe his words anymore. You feel overwhelmed, not just by his insecurities, but by your own. It’s as if, after everything that’s happened between you, it’s now hard to go back.

“I think I’m going to leave,” you say, feeling the need to step away to clear your thoughts. You don’t want to argue anymore, don’t want to feel pressured. You need space.

Tom doesn’t try to stop you. He says nothing. He just watches as you head towards the door, his expression dark.

“I’m not the right person for you, Y/N,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not what you need.”

You look at him one last time before leaving, feeling the pain of a possible ending forming. But at the same time, you know you need this time. To understand yourself, to see where you both can go. And, who knows, maybe to realise if your choices are truly compatible.

…...

The room is almost immersed in twilight, the soft light of the afternoon entering through the windows, touching the walls and creating a cosy yet tense atmosphere. Olivia is sitting on the bed, scrolling through her phone, while you look at yourself in the mirror, adjusting your hair and trying to decide what to wear. The brief calm before the night contrasts with the storm of thoughts that seem to have taken over your mind.

Olivia, as always, seems carefree. She’s excited for the night, for the fun to come. But you know that, as much as she tries to hide it, there’s a freedom in her that you often long for. A freedom that, in a way, you’ve never had, surrounded by your family’s expectations and rules.

"So, what's the plan?" Olivia asks, smiling at you in the mirror. "I know you're trying to decide between being the good girl or letting loose a bit, but for today, fun should be the priority, right?"

You give a half-hearted smile, finishing getting ready. The desire to go to this party seems to have faded a bit with everything that’s happened in your life. But at the same time, the promise of something new and different pulls you out of your comfort zone.

"Yeah, sure," you reply with a more distant tone. "I just hope today is quieter than last time."

Olivia laughs, a carefree and easy laugh, and she gets up, heading to the wardrobe to grab her bag.

"Let’s go. What happened at that party can't be the best of London, right?" she says, giving you a playful wink.

You laugh a little, but soon your expression turns serious. It’s not just the party that’s bothering you, but what happened with Tom, the feelings that arose, and the confusion he brought. You try to mask it, but Olivia, always attentive, notices.

"Hey, what happened between you and Tom?" Olivia asks, her tone softer now, as if she already knows the answer won’t be easy.

You sigh, collapsing onto the bed next to her. The frustration and exhaustion you felt earlier return with full force.

"I don’t know, Oli. I’m exhausted. All this... confusion. He doesn’t know what he wants. It feels like there’s something between us, but when things start to get real, he pulls away, and then I’m left here, hoping he’ll finally make up his mind."

Olivia remains silent for a moment, absorbing your words, and you realise that, somehow, she understands more than you expected.

"So, you want him, but you don’t know if he really wants you," Olivia says, finishing your thought. "That’s... complicated. It seems like he only wants you when it’s convenient, doesn’t it?"

You nod, still staring at the ceiling. Frustration mixes with doubt, and you’re no longer sure what to think about him.

"I don’t know what he wants, Olivia. He has this way of making me feel special, but then he acts like it’s all a mistake. Sometimes, I think he just... wants to run away from this. From me. I don’t get it anymore."

Olivia looks at you with an expression that mixes understanding with a hint of reproach.

"Maybe you need someone who isn’t so afraid of their own feelings. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re constantly walking a tightrope, Y/N. You deserve more than that. You don’t need to lose yourself because of him."

You feel a lump forming in your throat. Her words make sense, but at the same time, you can't ignore what there is between you and Tom. Something that, even confusing, isn’t that easy to forget.

" I know. I just... I don’t know how to deal with it. I’ve always lived with so many expectations, so many rules. Now, I don’t know what it’s like to live without them, you know? And suddenly someone like Tom shows up, with all his own complications, and everything gets tangled."

Olivia sits beside you on the bed, her expression softening, more empathetic than ever.

"I get it. My life’s never had many rules, but I always saw that as a kind of freedom, you know? Not having to worry about expectations or what people think. Maybe you need to start thinking about what you really want, without caring what anyone else will say. What do you want for your future, for yourself?"

You stay silent, reflecting on her words. Was that even possible? Could you really be free from all the ties, all the expectations? Could you be true to yourself without fear of messing it up?

Before you can answer, Olivia flashes a playful smile and grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet.

" Right, that’s enough thinking. Let’s go out and have some fun. Stop worrying so much about the future, Y/N. What matters is now. And right now, what matters is you having a good time. That’s all."

You smile faintly, but you feel a growing lightness, as if, at least for a moment, you could let go of that constant pressure. Deep down, you know there’s a lot to think about, but for now, the future can wait.

The clock shows it’s nearly time for you and Olivia to leave, just as you’d planned. The relaxed mood you’d built with laughter and jokes in the bedroom is shattered when the door suddenly swings open. Your mother stands there in the doorway, wearing the unforgiving expression you know all too well.

She doesn’t speak straight away, but her stare alone seems to crush the air in the room. Olivia stops fiddling with her bag and throws you a quick glance, sensing the tension instantly. Your mother watches the two of you, face set, almost as if she’s waiting for you to confess to something you haven’t even said yet.

"You’re not seriously going out like this in the middle of the week, are you?" your mother begins, her sharp voice slicing through what little ease was left in the air. " I thought you were in the middle of exams, Y/N. Not that it seems to bother you much, does it?"

You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Deep down, you know this is just another one of those moments where she tries to corner you. But the pressure of her presence, the criticism disguised as "concern", starts to wear on you.

"I’m only going out for a few hours, Mum. I already told you." Your voice comes out firmer than you expected. "I need some time for myself – something you’ve clearly never really understood."

Your mother doesn’t flinch at your response. She crosses her arms, her gaze sharpening, and then looks directly at Olivia, as if searching for something in her to criticise as well.

"Oh, of course. You need time... as always. What would you be without these little escapes, hmm? And this one" – she gestures towards Olivia with a sarcastic smile – "clearly isn’t going to help you learn anything about responsibility. Being around people like her is only going to drag you further away from your goals."

The jab lands hard, and you feel the sting of her words like a blade. Olivia, however, doesn’t seem intimidated. She simply meets your mother’s stare, calmer than you imagined she’d be.

"I didn’t realise you were so interested in my life, ma’am," Olivia says, her voice laced with sarcasm but perfectly composed. "But thanks for the concern."

You try to push aside the growing discomfort, but it’s hard when her presence becomes so suffocating. Your mother turns her eyes back to you, narrowed, her expression making it clear she won’t let you leave without one final comment.

"You’re going out again, filling your head with more of this nonsense, and then you come to me with that lost look, wondering why you feel so aimless. I raised you to be better than this, Y/N. You’re wasting your life on these shallow friendships."

Her words are sharp, cutting deep, and you feel the weight of her judgement pressing heavier on your shoulders. You glance at Olivia, who remains neutral on the outside, but you know this is no longer about her – it’s about you and the expectations your mother has always held over you.

For a moment, the air between the three of you grows unbearably tense, and you can’t stay silent any longer.

"I don’t need your approval to be who I am, Mum," you say, your voice quieter now, but firm. "I know what I’m doing, and one day you’re going to have to accept that. I’m not the little girl you keep trying to control."

Your mother steps closer, her eyes still full of fury, but you don’t back down.

"I don’t know who you think you are, but you’ll learn the hard way," she snaps, before turning on her heel and leaving the room, the tension still thick in the air.

Olivia, who had been watching everything closely, moves toward you with a small, knowing smile on her face.

"I think you handled that well. And look, Y/N, you know your life is yours, right? You don’t have to carry all that weight. I know it’s hard, but you don’t have to let her control you. Your future is yours."

You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the suffocating feeling your mother’s presence left behind. You know it won’t be easy, but at least for today, you’re determined not to let anything stop you from being who you want to be.

With one last glance at the closed door and a sigh, you grab your bag.

"Shall we?" you ask, trying to ease the tension in your shoulders, though the weight of the conversation still lingers.

Olivia smiles, and the two of you leave the room together. The tension doesn’t completely fade, but you feel like you’ve taken a step forward. A small but important one.

You and Olivia arrive at the party, and soon the energy of the place pulls you in. The loud music, the laughter, and the sense of freedom in the air make you feel like you’re experiencing something entirely new—far removed from all your responsibilities and everyday pressures. You see Olivia laughing, having a good time, and you feel a lightness growing inside you, something you hadn’t felt in ages.

The night promises to be fun, and with every passing minute, you feel more at ease. People are dancing to the music, and you don’t take long to join in the fun, letting yourself get carried away by the rhythm and the crowd’s energy.

After a while, Olivia drifts off to chat with some people, and not wanting to be left alone, you decide to head to the makeshift bar to grab a drink. When you get there, you pick up a cup and linger for a bit, observing the party, still adjusting to the buzzing atmosphere. Things are lively, and for a moment, you almost feel like you could be someone entirely different—free from the chains of your day-to-day life.

That’s when you notice someone approaching.

The guy steps up beside you, relaxed, looking at you with an expression that holds a trace of familiarity. He smiles—enigmatic, as if he knows something you don’t.

"Can I ask you something?" he begins, his voice calm and smooth, laced with a tone that sparks your curiosity. "You don’t seem like a stranger. I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before."

You glance at him, confused, trying to find any connection, but nothing clicks. He doesn’t seem like someone who goes to the same places or who’s crossed paths with you before.

"Erm... do we know each other?" you ask, hesitant, studying his face for any clues.

He shakes his head, still wearing that same mysterious smile.

"No. I think it's just a feeling." He leaned slightly against the bar, not making any sudden movements, but still keeping his eyes fixed on you. "Maybe you've just got one of those faces that look familiar, you know? But I swear, we've never met before."

A silence settled between the two of you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The atmosphere was light and easy, like a casual exchange between two people just getting to know each other.

You tried to gather your thoughts, feeling an odd sense that there was something more behind this interaction—something you couldn’t quite name. His smile grew increasingly enigmatic, which left you slightly intrigued. He looked at you with an interest that was subtle but noticeable, making you wonder what exactly he wanted.

Still, nothing else was said about it. He didn’t bother to introduce himself or ask your name, and strangely, you didn’t feel the need to ask his either. The conversation drifted into more trivial topics—like the setting, the party, even the music. But something about him still didn’t quite add up.

Before you could dwell on it further, Olivia appeared out of nowhere, almost as if she’d materialised from a place you hadn’t seen. Her face was tense, and she seemed more rushed than ever.

"Oi, you!" she called, practically grabbing your hand. "Come on, we need to go. Now. There's no time, let’s go!"

You tried to react, but Olivia’s urgent tone left no room for debate. She tugged at you without waiting for a response, forcing you to step back, still unsure of what was happening.

"Olivia, what’s going on?" you asked, a stab of confusion hitting you. "What happened? Why do we have to leave now?"

She looked at you, but her expression was tight, as if something serious was going on and she couldn’t explain. Her gaze was clear: don’t ask questions, just go.

"I’ll explain later, alright? Just... please, trust me," Olivia insisted, her tone lower now, but the panic in her eyes impossible to ignore.

You began to wonder whether something was actually wrong with the party or if Olivia was just having a moment of paranoia. But as you glanced around, you noticed people beginning to move more quickly, like something was about to happen. The music still pounded through the speakers, but you could feel tension hanging in the air.

Without further explanation, you and Olivia started heading for the exit. But just as you were nearly there, what had seemed like an ordinary party turned into something else entirely. The blare of sirens sliced through the music, and before you could even process it, the front door burst open with a bang.

A team of police officers burst in, uniformed and with the authority of those who had come to carry out a major bust. Chaos broke out instantly. People started screaming and running in all directions, trying to escape. Some threw themselves into nearby rooms, others tried to climb out the windows. But the police were everywhere, and no one could get away.

"Stay where you are!" a deep voice from one of the officers echoed through the house as the others spread out, forcing everyone to freeze.

The sense of panic was overwhelming. Your heart began to race, and anxiety flooded your chest. What was going on? Why were the police raiding the party? You looked at Olivia, who seemed completely on edge, but you still couldn’t understand the reason behind her urgency. She had sensed this was coming, but you had no idea why.

"Olivia, what..." you tried to ask, but she was already tugging at you, trying to pull you away from the chaos.

"Come on, now!" she repeated, even more desperate.

You were dragged along with her, struggling to keep your footing as the situation grew more frantic by the second. People were being searched by the officers, and some were being handcuffed, clearly being taken away. The panic was taking over everything, but Olivia kept pulling you with her.

You could feel the weight of the moment, like the night had flipped upside down in mere seconds. Fear crept in, and what was meant to be a fun evening had turned into a nightmare.

Eventually, Olivia managed to shove you towards the door, and before you had the chance to fully comprehend what was happening, the police were closing in, searching the other guests, placing handcuffs on some.

The two of you were escorted to a police van, and amidst the chaos, you couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was somehow connected—something still yet to reveal itself. As you were taken to the station, the image of the young man came back to your mind. Something about him, something about that moment, felt deeply entangled with everything happening now.

…...

The atmosphere at the police station was thick with tension. The cold lighting and the murmurs of others around you seemed distant as you followed your father down the corridor. He walked ahead of you with long, deliberate strides, as if trying to contain the fury that was clearly simmering beneath the surface.

You could feel the weight of his presence, the coldness in his gaze, and the unspoken expectation that you were meant to explain yourself. But nothing you could possibly say felt enough to match the anger he carried. The sound of his shoes striking the ceramic floor echoed down the corridor, and the weight of his eyes grew heavier with every step.

As they reached the door, the chief inspector gave a nod, signalling that the conversation was over. Your father, without so much as a glance back, made an impatient gesture with his hand, as if trying to rid himself of the whole ordeal as quickly as possible.

As soon as you stepped into the corridor, your father finally spoke, his voice slicing through the stillness of the night with a bitter tone.

"This is outrageous, Y/N. Absolutely outrageous!" he said, frustration and disdain dripping from every word. "You’re about to graduate in Law, with a brilliant future ahead of you… And now look where you’ve ended up! Mixed up in parties with drugs, alcohol, and on top of it all, getting caught by the police! How could you be so reckless?"

You remained silent, the weight of his words pressing heavily down on you. You didn’t know what to say. Guilt and shame began to stir, but at the same time, you couldn’t help the growing anger inside you at the way he spoke.

He stopped walking and turned to face you directly, his expression stern and unyielding. The anger in his eyes was almost tangible.

"I’ve always tried to protect you, Y/N, to give you everything you needed to have a successful life. And this is how you repay me? Getting involved with low-class people, with no future at all, going to parties like that where anyone could be caught up in something illegal!" He paused, his tone lowering but still full of reproach. "You have no idea how much this could damage your image, your career—everything we’ve built so far!"

The word image echoed in your mind. You knew that, to him, this wasn’t really about you—but about how your actions might reflect on their position in society. Your life seemed more like an extension of the empire he had built, and you were merely a piece to uphold its façade.

"Dad..." you tried to speak, but he raised his hand, cutting you off.

"Don’t give me that 'Dad' now, Y/N. I don’t know what’s going on with you! You were always so focused, so dedicated. And now... now you’re throwing yourself into shallow nonsense! What do you think you’re doing with your life? Mixing with people like that?"

His tone became sharper with every word. You felt a lump rising in your throat, but also a burning anger swelling in your chest. It was as if he didn’t see who you really were—only the perfect daughter he wanted you to be.

"I was just having fun..." you murmured, barely believing you were saying it. "I just wanted to feel something different. Something that wasn’t this constant pressure all the time."

Your father went quiet for a moment, as if trying to process what you had just said. But soon, he shook his head, clearly disillusioned.

"You're an adult now, Y/N. If you want to throw everything away for the sake of fun, that's your responsibility. But don't expect me to support it. I never thought I’d see my daughter lowering herself like this, mixing with people who have no future whatsoever. If you want to ruin your life, you're on your own now."

Those words landed heavily on your shoulders. You knew he was disappointed, but what he didn’t understand was that, in a way, you already felt lost in the game of perfection and pressure he’d built around you. Nothing you did ever seemed to be enough. Nothing you chose ever felt right. And still, you were caught in the idea that you had to be perfect—for him.

Suddenly, the door to one of the rooms swung open forcefully.

Tom appeared in the corridor, his steps quick and almost anxious, as if he were trying to get away from something—or someone. He looked tense, his eyes fixed straight ahead, not even noticing you standing there.

"This can’t be happening..." your father muttered, clearly irritated by the sight of Tom. He stopped walking, his eyes already sharpening with disapproval.

Tom caught your father's glare and halted abruptly, as if only just realising who was there. He looked uncomfortable, trying to pull himself together, but the tension in his body was obvious.

"Tom?" you called, your heart starting to beat a little faster. His presence here was unexpected, but there was something else in the air. Something you couldn’t quite place.

Tom turned to face you, visibly unsettled, but trying to maintain his composure. He was clearly nervous, unsure of how to handle the moment.

"I—" he started, but was cut off by the sound of hurried footsteps behind him.

You could hardly believe what you saw next.

The guy from the party appeared, walking just behind Tom. His expression was confused and strangely blank, as if he were there more by accident than by choice. But when he saw you, he stopped. His eyes locked onto yours for a moment. A slight smile, almost forced, crept onto his face—and it sent a chill down your spine.

"You..." you began, surprise overtaking your voice. "What are you doing here? How did you...?" The question hung in the air, unfinished. You didn’t know how to continue.

The guy looked at you, and for a split second, you realised he did recognise you. But there was no surprise on his face. It was as if he’d already known this encounter would happen. The tension between the three of you was mounting, and your father, now wearing a look of suspicion, turned his eyes sharply toward Tom.

His face was familiar, but now he was there, with a subtle smile on his lips, watching you. The shock was instant when you realised who he was.

Your heart sped up, and suddenly, the pieces began to fall into place.

"Ezra..." you whispered, the name slipping out more like a jolt than a question.

The young man looked directly at you, as if it were natural to see you there. A faint smile, almost like a warning, formed on his lips. The recognition was immediate, and yet, something still felt out of place.

Your father, who had been approaching Tom, let out a mocking laugh when he saw Ezra. He seemed to find the situation amusing, as though he were watching someone from a lower class in a place they didn't belong.

"Well, look who we have here..." your father remarked, his tone sharp and mocking. "The infamous 'Ezra', isn’t it? Tom’s brother, the criminal. I should thank you for giving me the chance to see your face."

The mention of Ezra’s name made your stomach turn. What shocked you the most was the way your father referred to him—with a coldness that seemed endless. Ezra, who until that moment had seemed like just another young man, was now being unmasked before you. That smile, which once appeared casual, now felt like a mask.

Tom remained silent, eyes cast down, visibly uncomfortable. He didn’t seem willing to confirm or deny anything, but your father’s glance told you everything was already clear to him.

Ezra, however, didn’t appear to care in the slightest about your father’s words. He simply watched, as if he were used to this kind of situation, his disdain practically tangible.

"I imagine I know what you’re thinking, sir," Ezra said, his tone light, as if he were merely being polite in an uncomfortable moment. "I’m not bothered by your opinions. But I do hope you understand I’m just a man trying to move forward."

Your father let out a short, sarcastic laugh.

"A man trying to move forward..." he repeated, clearly mocking him. "With what? Your criminal record?"

A wave of discomfort ran through you at those words. It was clear your father had no respect for Ezra at all, but what you couldn’t understand was how Tom was so involved with someone who seemed to carry such a heavy, shadowed past.

The surprise still held you tightly, but a lingering unease remained—like something had yet to be fully revealed.

You looked at Tom, and he averted his eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Ezra, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to your father's judgement, but his presence there—so casual and distant—only made the atmosphere denser.

Your father, still wearing that mocking smile, glanced at you and made a dismissive gesture, as if he'd had enough of the scene.

"Let’s go. I haven’t got time for this nonsense." he said impatiently, turning and heading towards the exit.

The silence between you and Tom was nearly absolute as your father walked away, and you felt as though something was about to shift drastically between all of you. Something you didn’t yet fully understand.

…...

That night, the silence at home felt like a punishment. Your father hadn’t spoken a word since you left the police station, but you could feel his thoughts weighing down the air like lead. He hadn’t asked any questions. Yet. But something in his eyes told you he was already making decisions.

The next day, as you tried to focus on anything other than the recent chaos, Olivia showed up with worried eyes. She walked into your room without ceremony, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice low, as if she knew something inside you had cracked.

You nodded, though not with much conviction. Olivia took a deep breath, running her fingers through her hair as if rehearsing what she was about to say.

"That guy you were talking to at the party... I knew who he was."

Your head slowly turned to face her.

"You knew?"

She nodded.

"When I saw you two talking, I tried to pull you away. I thought maybe it wasn’t the right time. He’s... Tom’s brother. Ezra. The guy your dad helped put in prison."

You felt the ground shift beneath you. Everything started to make sense—the familiarity, the tension, the way Tom had reacted.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because I knew it would only make you want to get closer. And I was trying to... I don’t know, protect you." She gave a weak smile. "But clearly, no one can control you."

You let out a bitter laugh.

"Not even me, lately."

Later that day, the urge to see Tom became unbearable. You knew where to find him. The garage he sometimes worked at wasn’t far.

When you arrived, he was hunched over the bonnet of an old car, hands covered in grease, his face damp with sweat. But when he saw you, he froze for a few seconds.

"You should leave," he said before you could even open your mouth.

"No. You’re going to listen to me, Tom."

The silence between you stretched thin.

"Why didn’t you tell me? About Ezra?"

He looked down, resting his hands on the car as if to steady himself.

"Because it wasn’t the right time. Because I thought if you knew... everything would change."

"And it did," you replied without hesitation. "But not the way you think."

Tom finally looked at you. And in that look, there was exhaustion, regret... and something that looked a lot like fear.

"My dad’s coming after you, Tom. He already suspects something. He’s going to put pressure on you, dig up whatever he can. And I don’t know what I can do to stop it."

Tom ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"He already came. This morning. Showed up here, pretending to talk about work. But made sure to remind me who he is. And who I am. And who I... can’t have."

Your eyes met again, too full to need words.

"I don’t care," you said. "But he’ll do everything he can to make me care."

Tom stepped closer, slowly, placing a hand on your waist. The grease left a mark on your expensive dress, but you didn’t care. He pulled you gently, resting his forehead against yours.

"I never wanted to hurt you."

"I know. But will you let me fight with you?"

His breath trembled, but he nodded.

And in that moment, despite the world crumbling around you, you chose to stay together.

You were in his car, but neither of you moved. The street was quiet, headlights off, and only the muffled sound of the city breathing in the distance. His elbows were resting on the steering wheel, head bowed. You watched the outline of him, the weight on his shoulders, like something was pulling him inward.

"You deserve to know the truth," he said, without looking at you. "I can’t hide it any longer."

You waited. No words would form in you until he decided to open the door to his memories.

"Ezra was arrested two years ago. Armed robbery. A warehouse in north London. He didn’t shoot anyone, but he had a gun. It was his third time getting into trouble... so there was no forgiveness."

You closed your eyes for a moment.

"And my father?"

Tom nodded, as if he had been expecting the question.

"He was the lawyer on the case. Representing the victim, the owner of the warehouse. But not just that. He was the one who convinced the jury that Ezra was too dangerous to be out." His voice cracked between contained anger and exhaustion. "And he made sure to use everything he could against him. Even things that had nothing to do with that crime."

"He hates you, doesn’t he?"

"He hates what I represent. That someone like me—from where I come from, with my surname—could cross the bloody hedge of his house." He finally turned his face in your direction. "And then, a few months later... he called me to work. Mechanical work, maintenance. An informal agreement."

You narrowed your eyes.

"An agreement?"

"He pays me. But never more than the minimum. And every time I thought about refusing, about leaving, he found a way to remind me... that he knows everything about me. About my mother. About Ezra." Tom paused, and something darker entered his voice. "It’s like he says: ‘If you want to keep walking around here, you’d better walk the line I’ve drawn.’"

You remained silent, absorbing each fragment of the truth. It was worse than you’d imagined. Colder, more calculated. Your father didn’t just know—he pulled the strings.

"Why didn’t you leave?"

Tom looked at you as if the answer were obvious.

"Because you were there."

Your heart tightened. And for the first time, you understood the magnitude of the sacrifice.

He wasn’t just the bad boy of the suburbs. He was someone being kept on a tight leash, used as an example—and still, he stayed. For you.

You reached out, touching his hand slowly. Grease-stained and warm. And for a moment, neither of you spoke. But everything was said in the silence.

"I never met your mum."

It was the first time you crossed that door. The small house in the suburbs smelled of tea, medicine, and old wood. Everything was clean and quiet, almost reverent.

Tom entered first, leaving the keys on the kitchen counter. You hesitated in the doorway, your eyes scanning the old photographs on the wall. A framed picture of two small boys—one was clearly him, the other, you now knew, was Ezra. And between them, a smiling woman with lively eyes.

"Mum?" Tom called, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

There was a soft rustling sound, like fabric brushing. A figure appeared in the hallway: a slender woman, her hair too white for her age, wearing a faded blue robe. Her eyes, though tired, still held a firm sweetness.

"Got a visitor," he said, glancing briefly at you. "This is..."

"Hello," you interrupted with a polite smile. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."

His mother looked at you for a moment, as if seeing more than you were showing.

"You’re beautiful... too beautiful for this scoundrel," she said, her voice weak but full of affectionate irony.

Tom rolled his eyes, but you laughed.

She sat in the armchair with his help. Her breathing was slow but noticeably laboured—you noticed the portable oxygen tank beside her, the bottle of pills, the blanket folded over her thin legs.

"My son tries to hide it, but he’s a good boy," she commented, looking at Tom with tenderness. "Even after everything. Even with what happened to Ezra."

You felt the air grow heavy for a second.

"He doesn’t talk much about it," you replied, sitting next to her. "But he does a lot for you."

She nodded, her eyes misting over.

"He’s always been like that. Strong on the outside... but inside, he’s made of glass."

You looked at him. Tom pretended not to hear, busy preparing the tea she always had at five. But the tension in his jaw told you that he was hearing every word.

The lady turned her gaze back to you.

"Take care of him, if you're going to stay. But if you're not... please, don't hurt him."

That hit you like an unexpected blow — for the honesty, the sweetness, the fragility of the woman in front of you, who, even sick, still wanted to protect her son.

You nodded silently, feeling something tighten in your chest.

Tom returned with the tea cup, handing it carefully. His mother smiled. You noticed how his hands trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he watched her.

And there, in that modest room, in that small house in the suburbs, you saw more of Tom than you'd ever seen in the late nights of furtive touches and whispered promises. He was everything your father would never understand: loyal, protective, real.

The car slid slowly through the dark streets of the neighbourhood, and you kept your eyes on the window, as if the city lights could digest what had just happened. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but dense.

You felt the engine vibrating under the seat, the sound of the rain lightly hitting the windscreen — and the weight of that room still hanging heavy on your chest.

"Why did you never take me there before?" your voice broke the silence, almost a whisper.

Tom didn’t respond immediately. His hands remained firm on the wheel, but his fingers tightened the leather more.

"Because... it’s not a nice place," he said, not looking at you. "Not easy."

You turned your face, looking at his profile illuminated by the streetlights.

"But it’s real. More than a lot of things out there."

He let out a sigh, almost like a short laugh, without humour.

"She shouldn’t have said that," he commented. "About me, about... whether you’re staying or not."

"She just wants to protect you," you said, sincerely. "That’s what mothers do, right?"

Tom diverted his gaze from the road for a moment, just to glance at you. There was something in his eyes... vulnerable.

"When Ezra got arrested, she shut down. Inside. It was like she died too," he swallowed hard. "I just tried... to keep everything standing." You nodded, feeling your heart tighten.

"And my dad?"

He hesitated.

"Your dad didn’t arrest Ezra alone. But he made sure to keep him inside for as long as possible. It was personal." Silence.

"Because he knew you were brothers?"

"Because he knew we were trouble. He made it clear from the start. Either we stayed silent... or we got screwed." You reclined in your seat, your stomach turning. It all started to make sense: the closed doors, the cold smiles, the control. You thought it was just about you. But it was much bigger.

"And that’s how you started working for him?"

"He gave me an ‘opportunity’. Said that, if I cooperated, he’d help keep my family’s situation... easier."

"And you accepted."

"Because I had no choice."

You said nothing. Just looked at him, truly. For the first time, without the fantasy of a forbidden romance, without the pent-up anger of a "want and can’t have". Just him, and the mess he’s been carrying alone for so long.

And there, between wet streets and red lights, you felt the gravity shift. You already knew you loved him — but now you knew the weight of what that meant.

Tom stopped the car in front of his house, but didn’t turn off the engine. His eyes turned to you.

"Do you still want to stay?"

You slowly released your seatbelt, then leaned towards him with a calmness you hadn’t had before.

"More than ever."

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if that simple "yes" was the first breath after years of drowning.

......

The door clicked softly behind you, and all that remained was his breath near you. His house was silent, the living room light off. Only the faint light from the kitchen illuminated the space, casting shadows on the worn floor.

You slowly took off your coat, feeling Tom’s eyes following every movement. He didn’t say anything — not yet. He just watched you with that intense gaze that always seemed to hold so much more than it showed.

You felt the tension grow between you like a rope stretched too tight. And then, without another word, he pulled you closer.

The kiss started calm — exploratory, firm, as if he was making sure you were really there, that it was real. But soon, the control began to crumble. His fingers buried themselves in your hair, his breath quickened, his touch became more desperate, more present.

"I thought about you every night since that first time," he whispered against your skin, his lips tracing a warm path to your neck. "But I hated myself for it."

"Why?"

"Because I didn’t want to drag you into this," he pressed his forehead against yours. "But now... now it’s too late, isn’t it?"

You pulled him closer in response, feeling his body pressed against yours.

"I don’t want you to protect me from you, Tom. I just want you to show me who you really are."

The clothes slowly fell away, on the way to the bedroom. His bed was small, the mattress creaked slightly as you both lay down, but nothing mattered except his hands exploring every inch of your skin, and the whispers escaping between kisses and touches.

"I want you so much it hurts," he confessed, his face buried in your neck, his breath erratic.

"Then don’t stop," you responded, panting. "Don’t think. Just feel."

And he obeyed.

The bodies met, understood. There was no more past, no guilt, no fear. Only the present — warm, raw, true.

In the end, you lay side by side, still breathless. Tom ran his fingers along your arms, as if drawing some memory there.

"I never thought I’d have this with someone like you," he murmured.

"Someone who sees me... fully."

You stare at him, his face partially hidden in the pillow.

"Maybe because no one’s ever really stopped to look."

He closes his eyes, squeezing your hand between his. And in the silence that follows, neither of you says another word. You don’t need to.

The atmosphere in your parents' house hasn't been the same for days. Since the incident at the police station, the conversations are cutting, the glances full of judgment. But it’s when you hear, through the slightly open door of the study, your father talking on the phone with someone from the public prosecutor’s office that everything inside you freezes.

"He’s out, but not for long. This call serves as a warning. If his brother steps out of line again, you’ll see how useful I can be to the prosecution."

Anger rises in your throat. Not for Tom. But for yourself. For all the years you stayed silent, for all the "yes, sir"s, for every time you smothered your own voice to keep the peace.

You enter without knocking.

"Are you going to use your position to get revenge on a guy you don’t even know, just because he’s with me?"

Your father lifts his eyes coldly.

"I’m protecting you. And protecting the family name."

"Protecting?" you laugh bitterly. "Since when does controlling, threatening, and manipulating count as protecting? You’re just trying to keep your vanity intact. Because I fell in love with someone who doesn’t fit in your display of appearances."

"You have no idea what you're doing. You’re throwing yourself into the arms of an unstable guy, involved with a criminal!"

"Involved? Ezra is his brother, not his accomplice. And if he was arrested, you know it wasn’t clean. You and I both know that." Your voice trembles, but doesn’t waver. "And I know it was you who made sure he got the maximum sentence. All of this to make Tom dance to your tune. To keep him around like a trained pet."

Your father stands, furious.

"Are you accusing me of corruption?"

"I’m saying you’re a man so used to controlling everything, that you don’t know how to handle when something slips out of your grasp. Well, guess what? I’m slipping away." You stare at him, firm. "I’m leaving this house."

He lets out a humourless laugh.

"Are you going to live with the mechanic now?"

"I’m going to live with myself." You shrug. "If Tom’s with me, great. But even if he’s not, at least I’ll be free."

You turn your back without waiting for a response. For the first time, you feel light.

A few months later, the light from the late afternoon streams through the windows of the university auditorium. You’re in your seat, gown on, diploma in hand. In the last row, there he is. Tom. Dark shirt, stubble, focused gaze. He doesn’t smile, but when you meet his eyes, you know he’s there for you.

Beside him, Olivia cheers, holding up an improvised sign. You smile, and in that smile, you carry everything: the pain, the rebirth, the love.

After the ceremony, you run to him in the parking lot.

"I can't believe you came."

"I promised I would, remember?"

"I thought maybe you didn’t want to be a part of this anymore." He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through the back of his neck.

"I’ve watched you grow so much in the past few months... I didn’t want to be a burden."

You step closer, touching his face gently.

"You were never a burden. You’re the one who reminded me I could choose."

He kisses your forehead, his eyes closed for a moment longer than necessary.

"Ezra’s going to get parole. The case review was accepted. Your name helped a lot... doctor." You smile, moved.

"Justice needs to start within us, Tom." He holds your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours.

"And now?" he asks. "Going to save the world?"

"No," you reply. "I’m going to start by saving myself. And then, maybe, both of us."

He smiles. For real this time.

"Shall we go?"

"Where to?"

"Wherever you want."

The road stretches ahead of Tom’s old car. The city fades behind. You have your feet on the dashboard, laughing at some silly joke he just made. The radio plays an old English song, and the window is open. You close your eyes for a second.

Free. At last.

And, beside you, he’s there. Not as a saviour, nor as a prison. But as an equal.

......

The apartment is small, but light floods in through the living room window. There are books stacked on makeshift shelves, two coffee cups on the old wooden table, and the sound of a distant drill — Tom is in the next room, fixing something that doesn’t even seem broken, just because he can’t stay still.

You’re typing on the laptop, glasses perched on the tip of your nose, with notes scattered all around. Your internship at the public defence office takes up your days, but for the first time, the work feels meaningful. You’re there by choice. Because you want to be. Because you believe.

Tom appears in the doorway, a ragged cloth covered in grease thrown over his shoulder and a lazy smile on his face.

"I finished that new shelf. Now you’ve got a place to put all those 'Criminal Law for Romantics' books."

You laugh, reaching your hand out to him.

"Come here. Rest for a bit."

He crosses the room and sits beside you on the sofa, pulling you close. You both sit in silence, just breathing together. A song plays in the background — one of those you discovered together, in some random playlist.

"Are you happy?" he asks suddenly, his voice soft, his eyes locked on you.

You don’t need to think.

"I’m at peace."

He kisses the top of your head.

"Me too."

Outside, London keeps on chaotic, alive, intense. But inside here, you’ve created a world where everything makes sense — even though sometimes it still hurts, even though there are still doubts, scars, challenges.

Because now you know what freedom is.

And you know what love is.

And you’ve learned — with him, with yourself — that you don’t have to choose between the two.