When she opens the door, he loses his nerve. She looks so soft and inviting, a questioning look on her face, that he forgets all he meant to say and instead wordlessly walks into her arms and holds her tightly.
âAre you okay?â she murmurs, and he grunts softly in answer. She feels too good to ruin it with his problems.
âCome in,â she says then, and he allows her to take his hand and lead him to the sofa. The coffee table in front of it is full of the detritus of a night in; a half-empty mug of tea, a package of Chessmen, the remote, a tightly-capped bottle of red nail polish. He glances down, and sure enough, her toes are freshly painted.
âSit,â she instructs.
When he does, she goes into the kitchen and he stares at the TV mindlessly until she comes back with another cup of tea for him.
âThank you, Treasure,â he says as he accepts it, and she smiles in response.
âHe speaks,â she teases softly.
It brings a tiny, tired smile to his face that he allows her to see, and she sighs as she sits next to him.
It had been a devil of a day, full of angry recriminations and ultimatums, but sitting here with her feels like nothing existed outside of this; out of her hand mindlessly rubbing his arm, out of feeling her warmth next to him, out of even the banality of the cup of tea in his hand and the romantic comedy playing its absurdities on the TV in front of them.
He finishes his tea and rests back on the couch, scooching down to rest his head on her shoulder. She shifts to make it more comfortable for him, but when it doesnât work, she instead urges him to put his head on her lap, so he does, gratefully.
They stay this way for a while, comfortably silent and watching Netflix. She strums her fingers through his hair, and he fights the urge to arch into her touch like a cat.
Despite the rise of contentment in his chest, he can feel an edge of dissatisfaction rising with it. He has to tell her, of course he does, but he is loath to do so when it would disrupt this oasis. To say nothing of the fact that none of his problems are hersâthough he knows she will shoulder some blame when she learns about them. His relationship is ending, yes, but that had been a bygone thing even before heâd said I do.
He ignores the part of himself that cruelly reminds him why the end of him and Charlotte was a foregone conclusion.
Of course not. It was his. Always his.
âNot that I mind it,â she murmurs, âbut are you gonna be this quiet all night?â
He closes his eyes in pleasure when she lightly scratches his scalp.
âThat was a plan,â he says, sighing.
âIs everything okay, Tom? Youâre starting to worry me.â
âNo. But donât worry. Please.â
She leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, and he allows himself to finally consider what the death of his marriage really means.
He could move to the U.S. permanently, continue building his career here.
He could do more theater.
Work with whomever he wanted.
Eat whatever he bloody well wanted.
Never have to hear the words âupcycle,â âglamping,â or âantiquingâ ever again.
He sighs and reluctantly sits up, turning toward her and bringing up a hand to caress her cheek.
âTalk to me,â she implores and nuzzles his hand.
He could be with her, finally. After years of yearning, denial, jealousy. All the times he seethed silently as she went on dates, knowing that he had no right to any of it; all the times he pretended he was content with who and what he was to herâŚ
He moves suddenly, surprising both of them and catching her lips with his. He feels her soft gasp, then the small whimper as she gives in to his kiss, scooting closer to him.
He kisses her deliberately, savoring the lingering sweetness of the biscuits and the underlying taste of her. His tongue explores her eagerly, elated to finally breach this wall.
She moans into his mouth and grips his hair again. He can feel her hesitancy, the way she canât decide whether to pull him closer or push him away, so he pulls her into his lap instead, unwilling to play the odds. His hands trace the silky lines of her arms as she straddles him, and she moans again.
Fuck, this is heaven. Pure heaven.
When they finally come up for air, she rests her forehead against his, panting heavily. He continues to stroke her arms. He glances down to watch as a line of goosebumps rise on them.
âWhatâs going on, Tom?â she asks again, bringing his eyes back to her deliciously lust-glazed ones.
God, he doesnât want to ruin this. Her in his arms. On his lap. Wanting him.
âItâs over,â he says simply.
Her brow furrows adorably and she bites her lip.
He nods, wanting badly to kiss her again. To carry her into her bedroom and have her over and over until they both collapse in exhaustion.
âI canât stay,â he says instead.
Itâs her turn to nod, and she raises a small hand to stroke his hair back, then his cheek.
âIâm sorry,â she says.
âMe, too,â he replies, then kisses her hand before setting her gently aside.
She watches as he prepares to leave, making no move to stop him. He hopes sheâs not regretting their kiss. He plans on so many more. So very many more.
He leans down to give her one now.
âI lied,â he whispers after itâs done.
Heâs almost at the door when her voice reaches him.
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