Summary: An afternoon stolen from the world stretches thin as you and Thomas linger at the edge of what you’re allowed to have.
Setting: Outskirts of Fuller, Texas — late afternoon, fall, 1955
Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), you (reader)
Content Warnings: emotional restraint, internalized shame, fear of abandonment, self-blame, unresolved tension, quiet anguish
E’s Notes: I watched Heartstopper again. Beware of the refrences to that. I'm probably gonna post the last two chapters on Christmas and New Years Eve. Luv y'all 💕
Chapter 17 : The Aftermath
The path beyond the fields is barely a path at all; it's just a patch of grass where footsteps have pressed the earth down over time. The ground feels warm beneath your shoes, with dust clinging to the hem of your skirt. The air is thick with the scent of sun-baked soil and dry weeds. Cicadas hum loudly enough to blur your thoughts.
Thomas walks next to you. He’s close enough that you’re aware of him without needing to look, but he doesn’t touch you. He never initiates contact. His steps are careful and measured, as if he knows how to move through the world without disturbing it.
Every few seconds, his attention shifts ,to the road in the distance, to the tree line, to the sky. It’s not fear; it feels more like expectation. He seems to be waiting for this moment to end. You notice this because you’ve begun to pay attention to everything about him.
“You don’t have to keep watch,” you say softly, breaking the silence. He glances at you, startled, then looks away again. His shoulders lift slightly in a helpless motion.
It’s not a denial.
It’s uncertainty.
You reach the fence line. The wire is rusty and bent, and the posts lean from years of neglect. Tall grass sways here, whispering in the breeze. This place feels tucked away from the rest of Fuller, forgotten, ignored, yet safe in its own quiet way. You sit first, lowering yourself onto the warm earth, palms pressed behind you.
The sun filters through the clouds, casting bands of gold and catching dust in the air. For a moment, Thomas remains standing. Then, slowly, he sits beside you. Too slowly. He leaves space between you, as if it were something fragile. His hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing and unclenching, revealing the tension he’s trying to hide.
“You okay?” you ask.
He nods.
The movement is quick, almost automatic. Too quick. The silence stretches again, but it’s not the comfortable silence you’ve grown used to with him. This one feels heavy and tight, like a held breath. You tilt your head and watch him. His gaze is fixed on the horizon now, his jaw tight and his eyes distant.
He looks like someone trying to memorize something they fear they won’t see again.
“Thomas,” you murmur. “Something’s wrong.”
He stiffens.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then he reaches into his satchel and pulls out his notebook. The paper is worn, with soft edges from use. He opens it to a blank page, pencil hovering. He writes a line. Then he stops.
He crosses it out so hard the paper wrinkles.
He tries again.
You hear the scratch of graphite. The faint sound feels louder than it should in the quiet. Finally, he turns the notebook toward you. I don’t know how long I’m allowed to have this. Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost steals your breath. “This,” you repeat quietly. The word feels too small for what it represents.
This afternoon.
This place.
This peace.
You.
“You don’t need permission,” you say, your voice steady even though something inside you aches. Thomas shakes his head slowly. Firmly. His mouth presses into a thin line. He taps the notebook once, then lets it fall shut. Some things, you realize, can’t belong on paper.
Then a sound escapes him, low and rough, pulling from deep within. Not a word. Never a word. Just frustration. Pain. Effort. His hands clench into fists against his thighs, knuckles pale. His shoulders tense as if bracing for impact, from the world, from himself, from the inevitability of loss.
“What is it?” you ask gently.
He tries to answer. You see it, the way his throat works, the way his lips part as if forcing sound through something that won’t give way. What comes out is broken, breathy, unfinished. The effort seems to exhaust him.Immediately, he turns away, shame reflected in his posture.
“Oh, Thomas,” you whisper, your heart aching. He drags a hand over his face, pressing hard on his forehead as if trying to push the feeling back inside. His breathing quickens, shallow and uneven. This isn’t anger. It’s not even sadness. It’s restraint cracking under its own weight.
You wait.
You don’t crowd him.
You let the moment breathe.
After a while, he opens the notebook again. His handwriting looks rougher now, slanted and uneven. I don’t want to ruin you. The words weigh heavy in your chest. “You’re not,” you say instantly. “You never have.” He shakes his head again, more violently this time. His pencil presses down hard enough to nearly tear the page. Everything I touch breaks.
Something inside you breaks instead. You shift closer, slowly, allowing him time to pull away if he needs to. He doesn’t. You don't take his hand, not yet. You just rest yours nearby, close enough for him to feel your warmth. He stares at the small space between your fingers, breathing shallowly.
After a moment, as if it costs him everything, his pinky brushes against yours. It’s barely there. It feels like trust.
The sun dips lower, the light fading into amber. The air cools. Somewhere nearby, a bird takes flight, its wings beating sharply against the quiet. “I don’t care how long,” you say softly. “I just care that we’re here now.” He looks at you then, really looks. His eyes are dark and filled with something raw, fragile, and afraid to hope. Not tears. Something deeper.
When it’s time to leave, neither of you acknowledges it. You walk back together toward the road, steps slow, as if trying to stretch the distance. At the edge, where the dirt becomes gravel, Thomas stops. His hands fidget at his sides, restless. He hesitates, then leans forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours.
It isn’t a kiss. It isn’t a goodbye. It’s an apology. And a promise he doesn’t know how to keep. When he pulls away, he turns and walks without looking back. You stand there long after he’s gone. The silence settles deep into your bones, revealing something painful and true:Some silences aren’t empty.
Mary McLaughlin wears a summer dress, floral print cotton pique, (by Fuller) with a matching knitted Orlon sweater, by Alex Colman. Vendôme earrings. Lipstick, Roman Pink by Max Factor.
Mary McLaughlin porte une robe d'été, imprimé fleuri en piqué de coton, (par Fuller) avec un pull Orlon tricoté assorti, par Alex Colman. Boucles d'oreilles Vendôme. Rouge à lèvres, Roman Pink de Max Factor.
