The notion of seeing him face-to-face came quietly, almost like a whisper in the back of her mind. She avoided the thought for days, convincing herself it wasn’t worth the risk. But the silence between her and Tom grew unbearable. No calls, no texts, just that heavy, suffocating void.
She told herself she would wait for him to make the first move. He left, after all. He walked out. But every passing hour felt like another brick added to the wall growing between them.
By the end of the first week, she was practically vibrating with indecision. That was when Leo DiCaprio entered the picture.
It started with a casual lunch, the kind she reluctantly agreed to because Samantha refused to let her wallow any longer. “Just eat something decent” she said. “Your body is 90% Pinot Noir at this point.”
Leo showed up with his usual charm, exuding that effortless charisma that somehow felt both genuine and overwhelming.
“Look at you” Leo said, sliding into the booth across from her. “I almost didn’t recognize you with all the gloom.”
“Thanks” she replied flatly, stirring her iced coffee. “Great pep talk.”
He grinned. “What? I’m just saying you look like you’ve been through it. And by through it, I mean a train wreck.”
She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “Appreciate the honesty.”
After some light small talk, Leo leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “So… are we going to talk about what’s going on, or are we just pretending you’re here for the avocado toast?”
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “There’s nothing to talk about. We fought. He’s in London. I’m here. End of story.”
“Bullshit” he said bluntly, making her blink in surprise. “You love him. He loves you. And neither of you knows how to pull your heads out of your asses.”
“Wow” she muttered. “Did you take Samantha’s master class in brutal honesty?”
“Look” Leo continued, ignoring her jab. “Tom’s my guy, but I know him. He’s stubborn as hell, and he’s not going to fix this on his own. You want things to change? You have to do something.”
“What am I supposed to do?” she snapped, feeling her chest tighten. “Just fly to London and show up at his doorstep?”
Leo’s face lit up. “Exactly.”
She blinked at him. “I was being sarcastic.”
“I’m not” he said firmly. “This isn’t something you fix over the phone. You need to see him. Talk to him. Make him see what’s at stake here.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because deep down, she knew he was right.
After lunch, she walked aimlessly through the city, Leo’s words rattling around in her head. By the time she got home, the idea already took root.
She sat on the couch, staring at her phone, debating whether to call one of her friends for advice. As if on cue, Samantha texted:
“How was lunch with Leo? Did he lecture you?”
She smirked and replied:
“Something like that.”
Ten minutes later, Samantha showed up at her door, dragging Miranda and Charlotte behind her.
“We’re staging an intervention” Samantha announced, pushing past her.
“For what?” she asked, closing the door.
“For you” Miranda said, giving her a pointed look. “And your refusal to fix things with Tom.”
“I don’t...”
“You do” Charlotte interrupted gently. “Jules, you’re miserable. He’s miserable. You need to talk to him.”
“I don’t even know what to say” she admitted, sinking onto the couch.
“Start with ‘hi'” Samantha said, pouring herself a glass of wine.
Miranda sighed, sitting beside her. “Jules, if you want to fix this, you need to see him. Face-to-face. None of this texting or waiting for him to call. Go to London.”
She hesitated, glancing at the floor. “And what if he doesn’t want to see me?”
“Then at least you’ll know” Charlotte said softly. “But I think he does. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”
By the end of the night, her friends practically packed the suitcase for her.
“You’ll stay at the Connaught” Samantha declared, typing furiously on her phone. “It’s chic, but not too obvious.”
“Or you could stay at a cute Airbnb” Charlotte suggested.
“Absolutely not” Samantha said. “This is a statement trip.”
Miranda looked up from her laptop. “Okay, I found a flight. Direct to Heathrow. You’ll be there in under seven hours.”
“I haven’t even decided if I’m going” she protested weakly.
“Yes, you have” Miranda said firmly.
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. Maybe they were right. Maybe this was the only way to move forward - one way or another.
Later that night, after her friends left, she sat in her dimly lit apartment, staring at her passport on the kitchen counter.
She was still scared. Still unsure. But for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of something else.
Hope.
___________________________
She stood there, in the dimly lit hallway of Tom’s London flat, her heart pounding so hard she felt it in her throat. She should have called. She should have stayed calm. But this had been building for days, this aching, gnawing need to see him, to end the silence.
So she came there, in the dead of night, with no plan, just raw emotion. She knew it was messy. But she was there now, and she didn’t know how to make it stop, how to make it right.
Her knuckles tapped against the door, once, twice.
She waited.
The door opened slowly, and there he was.
For a split second, the flood of relief she expected didn’t come. Instead, confusion struck her. His posture was stiff, like he was bracing for something, and his eyes... shit. They were filled with something she couldn’t quite read.
“Jules” he breathed. “What are you....?”
“Surprise. I need to talk to you” she cut in, her voice cracking despite her best efforts. She had rehearsed this. She had told herself she wouldn’t do this. But the second she saw him, all those carefully planned words just... fell apart.
He hesitated, glanced over his shoulder, and then back at her. “I’m not alone.”
The words hit her like a slap. She froze. The heavy weight of them landed in her stomach like a lead balloon.
Not alone.
The first thing that ran through her mind was who else was with him.
Was it another woman?
A cold, sick feeling crawled up her spine. Her chest tightened. She tried to swallow but it was like something was lodged in her throat. The worst-case scenario rushed through her mind: a woman, someone who fit the bill of whatever she wasn’t, whatever she couldn’t be for him.
Her voice shook, but she couldn’t stop it. “Is it her? Is she here? Tribeca brunette?”
Tom’s face faltered, frustration lining his features. “No, it’s not...”
But she didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want the excuse. She didn’t care about explanations right then. She couldn’t stay there and feel this. The anger, the humiliation -it was too much.
She turned on her heel, the sting of tears threatening, but she refused to let them fall. Not here, not now.
“Forget it” she snapped, cutting him off before he could say anything else. “Forget I even came.”
The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city filtering through the blinds. Jules lay on the bed, her back to the door, her body curled tightly beneath the covers. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the wall, her breaths shallow and uneven.
She wasn’t asleep - couldn’t sleep. Not after everything.
The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:14 a.m. when she heard it: the sound of the front door opening quietly, followed by the soft thud of heavy boots against the hardwood floor.
Tom was back.
Her heart raced as she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her breathing to slow, willing her body to stay still. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say - or worse, what he wouldn’t say.
The footsteps grew louder, then stopped just outside the bedroom. Jules tensed as she heard the door creak open. He stood there for a long moment, the silence between them heavier than any of their arguments.
She wanted to turn around, to look at him, to say something. But she stayed frozen, her face buried in the pillow, her breaths shallow.
Tom finally moved into the room. She heard the scrape of the closet door opening, the faint rustle of fabric as he pulled out his clothes. The metallic sound of a zipper being drawn cut through the quiet like a knife.
He was packing.
Jules’s chest tightened, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain he could hear it. She bit her lip to stop herself from making a sound, her fingers curling into the sheets.
She felt him move closer to the bed, and for one agonizing moment, she thought he might say something. But he didn’t.
Instead, she heard the faint shuffle of his suitcase wheels and the soft click of the door as he left the room.
The front door opened and closed with the gentlest of sounds, and then there was nothing.
The silence in the apartment was suffocating. Jules lay there, motionless, the faint hum of the city outside the only sign that time was still moving. Her throat burned as she finally let out a shaky breath, her hand clutching the pillow beneath her.
She didn’t cry, not yet. She stayed frozen in place, her mind blank except for one thought that echoed like a drumbeat in her chest:
He’s gone.
The first day without him felt like a void. She woke up to an unmade bed and the kind of silence that crawled under her skin. There was no sound of his suitcase being dragged across the floor, no soft murmur of his voice as he double-checked his itinerary. Just her. Alone.
She lay there for an hour, staring at the ceiling, replaying the fight in her head. Every word felt like a jagged shard, cutting deeper each time she remembered it. Coward. Hypocrite. Liar. The worst part? She had said just as much to him. Maybe worse.
Eventually, she forced herself out of bed and into the shower. The water was too hot, scalding against her skin, but she let it burn. It was almost cathartic - the sting of something physical to distract from the ache inside.
Miranda texted first, early, while she still in a towel:
"Lunch. 1 PM. Don’t even try to say no."
She didn’t reply immediately, but Miranda followed up five minutes later with "I’m not above breaking down your door."
She managed a weak "Fine" and threw on the first semi-clean outfit she could find.
At the restaurant, Miranda and Charlotte were already waiting for her. Samantha strolled in a few minutes late, wearing oversized sunglasses and a trench coat that screamed "morning after."
"Jesus Christ, you look like shit" Samantha said as she slid into the booth.
"Thanks" she muttered, barely touching the coffee Charlotte had ordered for her.
Miranda leaned forward, concern etched across her face. "How are you holding up?"
"I’m fine" she lied.
"No, you’re not" Charlotte said softly. "And you don’t have to be."
Samantha pulled off her sunglasses, her sharp gaze cutting through the pretense. "Did you cry? Please tell me you cried. You’re allowed, you know."
She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Yeah, I cried. And then I spent the rest of the night replaying every awful thing we said to each other."
Miranda sighed, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "You’ll get through this. You always do."
"Yeah" Samantha added, her tone casual but her expression fierce. "And if he doesn’t get his shit together, there’s always a hitman."
Charlotte gasped. "Samantha!"
"I’m kidding!" Samantha said, rolling her eyes. "Mostly."
The lunch was comforting, in its way. She laughed a little, even if it was forced, and for a couple of hours, she almost felt normal. But when it was over, and she stepped back onto the bustling streets of Manhattan, the loneliness came rushing back.
The apartment felt cavernous without him. His side of the closet was almost empty, but his favorite hoodie was still draped over the chair in the corner. She should have put it away, but instead, she wrapped it around herself and sank into the couch.
She scrolled aimlessly through Netflix, started three different shows and abandoned them all after ten minutes. Nothing held her attention. She didn’t even bother with dinner - just poured another glass of wine and stared at her phone, willing it to light up with a message from him. It didn’t.
At some point, she opened her notes app and typed a message she’d never send:
"I miss you. I’m sorry. Please call me."
She deleted it immediately.
The next morning, she tried to be productive. She headed to the school, answered emails, pretended everything was fine. But the staff noticed. They didn’t say anything outright, but she caught the concerned glances, the awkward silences when she walked into a room.
Her cousin called from the clinic around noon. "You sound like shit" he said bluntly.
"Thanks, honey. Always a charmer."
"Do you want to come by? We’ve got coffee. Or whiskey."
"I’m fine" she said, but her voice cracked slightly. He paused.
"Okay" he said eventually. "But call me if you need anything. Seriously. Anything."
Samantha dragged her out to a bar.
"You’re not going to sit at home wallowing" she declared, handing Jules a martini. "We’re getting you drunk. And if you cry, I’ll cry with you. But not in a pathetic way. In a sexy, movie-star way."
The bar was loud, filled with beautiful people who looked like they had their shit together. She hated them all. But Samantha kept her entertained, pointing out potential rebounds and telling ridiculous stories about her last Tinder date.
"You’re still hot" she said, sipping her drink. "If Tom doesn’t want to grovel, that’s his problem. Plenty of people would kill for a piece of this." She gestured to her like she was some prized artwork.
She laughed despite herself. "You’re insane."
"I’m right" Samantha said, grinning.
She didn’t stay out long, but when she got home, the apartment didn’t feel quite as suffocating.
The nights alone were the hardest. She avoided the bedroom, sleeping on the couch instead, curled up with his hoodie and a throw blanket.
She started writing again, just to fill the hours. Nothing coherent - just fragments: memories, snippets of conversations, flashes of the fight she couldn’t stop reliving. The words poured out like a purge, and it was almost cathartic.
By the third night, she stopped expecting him to call.
But that didn’t stop her from wishing he would.
Tom:
The first morning, he woke up in his London flat to the sound of rain against the windows. He had barely slept, tossing and turning until the early hours, his mind replaying the fight in agonizing detail. The venom in his voice, the way her face had crumpled - he hated himself for it.
He stared at his phone on the nightstand. No messages. No missed calls. He told himself he wasn’t surprised, but it still felt like a gut punch.
Dragging himself out of bed, he went through the motions: coffee, shower, scrolling through emails. His agent had already left him a dozen reminders about the day’s meetings, but he ignored them for now. Instead, he sat at the kitchen table, nursing his coffee, and stared out at the grey city skyline.
Work didn’t offer the usual escape. The set was chaotic - the kind of organized chaos he usually thrived on - but that day, it grated on him.
"Tom, you good?" the director asked during a break, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Yeah" he said, forcing a smile. "Just jet lag."
But he knew the truth. He was distracted. His performance lacked its usual energy, and he could feel the sidelong glances from the crew.
During lunch, he snuck off to a quiet corner of the studio and pulled out his phone. He typed her name into a text - just Jules - and stared at it for a long time. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but he didn’t type anything else. Instead, he locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
He spent his evenings on the couch, flipping through channels and barely registering what was on. Sometimes Louis called, and those moments were the only bright spots in his day.
"Will Jules come with you next time?" Louis asked, and Tom’s heart clenched.
"Maybe" he said, his voice tight. "We’ll see."
After the call, he stared at the ceiling for a long time. He thought about calling her, but the memory of her shouting, the way her eyes had burned with anger and hurt, stopped him.
One night, he called his closest friend, a fellow actor named Declan.
"What the hell is going on, mate?" Declan asked, his voice thick with concern. "You sound like shit."
Tom exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "We had a fight. A bad one."
"About what?"
Tom hesitated. "Doesn’t matter. Just… she’s pissed at me. And I’m pissed at her."
"Have you called her?"
"No."
"For fuck’s sake, Tom" Declan groaned. "You’re not twelve. Pick up the phone and fix it."
"It’s not that simple" Tom snapped.
"Of course it is" Declan retorted. "You love her, yeah?"
"Yeah" Tom said quietly.
"Then stop being a stubborn prick and tell her."
The nights were the hardest. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, haunted by the look on her face when he had walked out. He hated that he left - hated that he didn’t turn back.
Sometimes he thought about the kiss - her kiss with that guy. He wondered if it had really meant nothing or if it had been a symptom of something deeper, something broken between them. The thought made him sick.
He tried to distract himself with work, throwing himself into scripts and rehearsals, but it was never enough. The ache in his chest followed him everywhere.
On the sixth night, he dreamed about her. In the dream, she was laughing, her eyes bright and warm, and for a moment, everything felt right again. But then he woke up, and the emptiness hit him like a freight train.
He picked up his phone again, opened their last text thread, and typed:
I miss you. I’m sorry.
But just like every other night, he deleted it before sending.
! This fic contains mature content and emotional chaos. !
The party was in full designer-label swing — a glitter-drenched jungle of champagne flutes and egos wrapped in couture. From the penthouse balcony, New York glittered like a diamond.
Inside, Samantha sipped her martini, yanking Jules through the room.
"Bathroom break" she declared with her signature smirk. "And you’re coming. I refuse to confront those sadistic fluorescent lights without backup."
Jules raised a brow. "Since when do you need backup for a mirror?"
Samantha shot her a look. "Darling, I am the mirror. But even goddesses deserve good lighting."
They were steps from the stalls when Jules froze. Samantha, sensing a disturbance in the force, halted mid-stride.
Two women stood by the vanity — gorgeous, glittering, and oblivious. The brunette in emerald satin looked like a Vogue cover come to life — minus the decency.
"I don’t know what to do, Susan" she said, her voice pitched in that performative kind of heartbreak women use when they know they’re being watched. "I didn’t mean for it to happen… but I think I’m in love with him.
Samantha arched an eyebrow. "Well. This just got interesting."
The brunette’s friend — a sharp-cheekboned blonde leaned in. "You mean Tom Hardy, right?"
"Yes." The brunette sighed. "But I’m not some villain. It just happened, okay? We were working late, one thing led to another, and… now I can’t stop thinking about him."
Jules didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Her nails, however, carved half-moons into her palm.
The blonde scoffed. "And his girlfriend?"
"She’s a nightmare" the brunette whispered, practically pouting. "Always picking fights, always making everything complicated. He loves her, well, he says he does, but you can tell she drains him. He looks exhausted just talking about her.”
Samantha’s nostrils flared. "This bitch.."
"Don’t" Jules said, ice cold.
"Oh, I won’t do anything" Samantha hissed. “But I might accidentally trip and fall mouth-first into her cheekbone."
The brunette was still talking, oblivious and odious. "I mean, he needs someone who makes life easier. Someone who makes him happy. Someone like me."
"Jesus" Samantha muttered. "She’s pitching herself like a timeshare in the Hamptons."
The blonde crossed her arms. "You really think he’ll leave her?"
A shrug. "Maybe not now. But the way he looks at me… it means something. It has to."
As the women drifted toward the stalls, Jules tugged Samantha into the hallway like a woman who’d just seen the trailer for her own betrayal.
When they were finally out of earshot, Samantha whipped around.
"That manipulative, delusional..."
"Don’t" Jules snapped. Quiet. Controlled. Deadly.
Samantha blinked. "Don’t? Jules, she just did everything short of twirling a mustache and cackling. Are we seriously going to let her monologue about stealing your man like we’re extras in our own lives?"
"I said don’t." Jules’s voice was low, calm, nuclear. "She doesn’t get to see me sweat."
Samantha crossed her arms. "Fine. So what’s the plan? Confront her? Confront him? Set fire to her extensions and call it a cleansing ritual?"
Jules stared at the floor for a long second, then looked up, her face calm, her eyes anything but.
"I talk to Tom. Alone. I want to hear it from him."
"And if he admits it?"
Jules smiled, slow, cold, dangerous. "Then God help them both."
Jules had been preparing for the evening all day, her mind a storm of anticipation, love, and doubt. The apartment smelled faintly of jasmine, thanks to the scented candles she had carefully placed in the living room and bedroom. She had cooked Tom’s favorite meal — something he jokingly called "heart on a plate" — a rich pasta dish with creamy sauce and fresh herbs she’d picked up from the market that morning. Her playlist, filled with soft jazz and indie love songs, was queued up, and her best dress, the sleek black one that Tom couldn’t take his eyes off the last time she wore it, hung ready on the closet door.
Tonight was about them. About saying goodbye in the most romantic way possible before Tom jetted off to London for three long weeks. Jules wanted him to leave with a memory so perfect, so intoxicating, that he’d spend his entire trip counting down the days until he could come back to her. She didn’t want to bring up the conversation she had overheard recently. She didn’t want to ruin the day. She thought she’d talk to him calmly after they got back. It was probably nothing anyway.
By the time Tom walked through the door, Jules was a vision. The dress hugged her in all the right places, her makeup was flawless, and her hair spilled over her shoulders like silk.
But Tom, with his travel bag slung over his shoulder and an air of distraction clinging to him, barely noticed. "Hey, love" he said absently, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before dropping his bag by the door.
And just like that, the spell broke.
"You’re late" Jules said, her voice sharper than she intended. She had planned to greet him with warmth, but the hours of waiting and simmering doubt had gotten the better of her.
Tom blinked, caught off guard. "Sorry, there was traffic. You wouldn’t believe the..."
But Jules wasn’t listening to him anymore. She politely served dinner, accompanied by small talk. Tom was tired from work and felt the tension of the upcoming trip, but Jules was troubled by something entirely different.
The evening had started innocently enough, though an unspoken tension crackled between them. The apartment felt too quiet — the kind of quiet that amplified every thought clawing at her mind. Jules sipped her tea slowly, watching Tom scroll through his phone like he didn’t have a care in the world. It irritated her more than it should have.
Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.
"So.." she began, leaning back casually, though her stomach was in knots "should I be worried about your friend?"
Tom barely looked up, his brows furrowing in confusion. "What?"
"You know" she said, tilting her head, feigning nonchalance. "The one from Tribeca Grill. Producer, right? Very… touchy."
His eyes narrowed as he slowly set his phone down. "Where the fuck is this coming from?"
"I told you. Just something I heard" she replied with a shrug. "Apparently, it looked cozy. Care to elaborate?"
He snorted, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. Who the hell told you that?"
"Celeste. Do you even remember our conversation? Besides, does it matter?" she countered, her voice sharpening. "I’m asking you."
Tom’s jaw tightened as he took a long breath. "She’s a producer. We talked about a project. That’s it. End of fucking story."
"Funny"
"For fuck’s sake, Jules" he snapped, his voice rising. "Are you serious right now? You’re really going to come at me with some third-hand gossip and act like it’s gospel?"
"It’s not just gossip" she retorted, anger bubbling up. "People saw you, Tom. You’re not exactly subtle when someone’s throwing themselves at you."
"Oh, fuck off" he barked, standing abruptly. "You’re out of your goddamn mind."
She slammed her mug down, tea sloshing dangerously close to the edge. "Don’t fucking dismiss me like that! I have every right to ask you about this!"
"Right?" He laughed bitterly, pacing the room. "You think you’ve got the moral high ground here? You think you’re in a position to lecture me about loyalty?"
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she snapped, heart pounding.
"It means" he said, turning to face her, his eyes blazing "that you’re a goddamn hypocrite."
She blinked, thrown off balance. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Oh, don’t play dumb, Jules" he snarled. "That man in Paris. Remember him? Business trip, my ass."
Earlier that year…
Jules was in Paris for a business trip. It wasn’t unusual for her to travel — running two thriving businesses meant always being on the move, meeting clients, networking, and, occasionally, blowing off steam. That night, blowing off steam had turned into something else entirely.
It had started innocently enough. After a grueling day of meetings, Jules had found herself at a sleek, dimly lit bar, nursing a scotch and listening to live jazz. She liked places like this — classy, quiet, the kind of spot where no one asked questions.
That’s when she saw him: Ethan, an old friend and former fling from her pre-Tom days. He was charming, with that rugged, disheveled look Jules had always found annoyingly irresistible. They’d been close once — too close, really. Their relationship had ended in a blur of fiery arguments and unresolved tension, but somehow, seeing him there felt… easy.
"Jules" he’d said, his voice warm and familiar. "I’d ask if you remember me, but I’m not sure I’ve ever forgotten you."
"Ethan" Jules replied, a wry smile curling her lips. "What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re stalking me across continents now."
He laughed, leaning on the bar beside her. "Pure coincidence, I swear. Or fate, if you believe in that sort of thing."
Jules didn’t believe in fate. She believed in choices, consequences, and occasionally, bad decisions. But as the night went on, the scotch flowing and the conversation taking on the rhythm of old times, she started to forget why Ethan had been a bad decision in the first place.
They’d talked about everything — life, work, love. Ethan had been careful not to pry too much about Tom, though Jules had caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
"Are you happy?" he’d asked finally, his tone casual but his gaze intense.
Jules hesitated, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "I’m fine."
"Fine" Ethan repeated, smirking. "You always did love settling for fine."
Something in her snapped then — whether it was the scotch or the familiarity of his words, she didn’t know. "I’m not settling for anything, Ethan. My life is exactly what I’ve built it to be."
"And is that enough?" he asked, leaning in closer.
Jules opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. The next thing she knew, Ethan’s hand was on her cheek, his lips brushing hers, and she didn’t pull away. For one brief, reckless moment, she let herself get lost in the kiss — the passion, the nostalgia, the sheer wrongness of it all.
But then it was over.
Jules had pulled back sharply, her breath hitching. "I can’t" she said, shaking her head. "This was a mistake."
Ethan looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Jules.."
"No" she interrupted, grabbing her coat and throwing cash on the bar. "It’s over. Again."
She’d walked out without looking back, the cool night air sobering her instantly. And she hadn’t thought about it since — or at least, she’d tried not to.
Tom had found out about the kiss entirely by accident. It was during a wrap party for his latest project — a star-studded, chaotic affair where secrets flowed as freely as the champagne.
He’d been standing by the bar, when an acquaintance — Sammy, a British cinematographer with a penchant for gossip — sidled up to him.
"Tom, mate" Sammy said, his tone overly familiar. "Funny thing happened when I was in Paris a couple weeks back. You won’t believe who I ran into."
Tom raised an eyebrow but said nothing, already bracing for whatever nonsense was about to spill out of Sammy’s mouth.
"Your Jules" Sammy continued, grinning. "Caught her at this jazz bar with a man… Anyway, they looked very cozy."
Tom’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. "Did they now?"
"Oh, yeah" Sammy replied, oblivious to the warning in Tom’s tone. "I didn’t want to intrude, but I saw him kiss her. Right there in the middle of the bar. Brazen, I tell ya."
Tom took a slow sip of his non-alcoholic drink, his mind racing. He trusted Jules — mostly — but hearing about this from someone else stung.
Sammy was still yammering, but Tom had tuned him out. His thoughts were a chaotic mix of anger, confusion, and hurt. By the time Sammy wandered off, blissfully unaware of the damage he’d caused, Tom had made a decision: he wasn’t going to confront Jules. Not yet.
Tom’s silence wasn’t born of fear or avoidance. It was calculated.
First, he knew Jules well enough to predict how the conversation would go: she’d either deny it outright or admit it with her signature mix of defiance and cynicism, throwing his own faults back in his face. Either way, it wouldn’t be productive.
Second, and more importantly, he loved her. He really loved her —enough to know that everyone screws up sometimes. If the kiss had been meaningless, dragging it into the open would only create unnecessary drama. And if it wasn’t meaningless? Well, he’d cross that bridge when he got there.
But there was another reason, one Tom barely admitted even to himself: he wanted Jules to tell him. He wanted her to choose honesty, to prove that she trusted him enough to share the truth. So he waited, watching, wondering if she’d ever bring it up.
In the meantime, he tried to brush it aside, telling himself it wasn’t worth ruining what they had. After all, a kiss wasn’t the end of the world. But as much as he tried to bury it, the thought lingered, a small, nagging wound he couldn’t quite ignore.
The memory hit her like a slap.
"Oh, don’t play dumb, Jules" he snarled. "That man in Paris. Remember him? Business trip, my ass."
The color drained from her face. "I… I don’t..."
"Cut the fucking bullshit!" he roared, stepping closer. "I know, Jules. I know."
Her chest tightened, panic surging through her. "It was nothing!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "One stupid kiss! It didn’t mean a goddamn thing!"
"Like that fucking matters?" he exploded. "You kissed another man! You think I give a shit if it was ‘just one time’? You lied to me. You lied to my fucking face."
"I didn’t lie" she shot back, her voice trembling with desperation. "I just… I didn’t tell you. I didn't want to hurt you."
"Oh, spare me the fucking martyr act" he snapped, his words dripping with venom. "You didn’t tell me because you’re a goddamn coward."
"Fuck you" she spat, tears pricking at her eyes. "You don’t get to stand there and act like you’re fucking perfect. You’re always gone, Tom. Always somewhere else, with someone else. Do you even give a shit about this relationship anymore?"
"Don’t you fucking turn this around on me" he growled, stepping even closer, his voice dangerously low. "You want to talk about being gone? About giving a shit? You’re the one who broke this, Jules. Not me. You."
"Because you fucking pushed me to it!" she screamed, the words tearing out of her like a wound. "You always leave me alone, and I… I didn’t know what to do anymore!"
"Oh, poor fucking you" he sneered. "Lonely Jules, stuck in her giant fucking apartment, running her perfect businesses, surrounded by her perfect friends. Cry me a fucking river."
"Go to hell" she hissed, voice shaking.
"Maybe I already fucking live there" he shot back, his voice breaking slightly. "Maybe I live there every goddamn day because I can’t trust the one person who’s supposed to have my back." He spun around, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. "Okay, we’re done. This is fucking insane."
"You think I’m insane?" she fired back, stepping closer. "You think I’m crazy for questioning why my man is getting cozy with some brunette in Tribeca?"
"Yes, I do" he snapped, his voice cold. "Because it’s bullshit. You’re hearing what you want to hear, just so you can start a fight. You always fucking do this."
The words hit her like a slap, and for a moment, she froze. Then the anger surged — white-hot, uncontrollable. Before she even realized what she was doing, her hand flew up, connecting with his cheek in a crack that echoed through the silent apartment.
Tom stumbled back a step, his head snapping to the side. Slowly, he straightened, his hand brushing over the red mark blooming on his jaw. His laughter came low and bitter, devoid of humor.
"Fucking brilliant" he said, voice dripping with venom. He turned his head slightly, fixing her with a cold stare. "What now, Jules? You want me to hit you back?"
She blinked, her chest heaving, hand still trembling.
"No?" he continued, his tone mockingly light. "That’s the thing, isn’t it? You can hit me, scream at me, do whatever the fuck you want, and I just have to stand here and take it. Because if I hit back, I’m the asshole. Right?"
"Don’t you fucking twist this around" Jules hissed, finding her voice.
"Oh, I’m not twisting shit" he shot back. "You’re the one who threw the first punch, literally."
"I wouldn’t have if you weren’t such a fucking liar!" she screamed, the words slicing through the air.
Tom’s eyes blazed as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "Liar? That’s rich coming from you. You’re going to stand there and call me a liar when you kissed another man? Did he fuck you?"
She was trembling now. "You’re such a fucking bastard" she whispered.
"And you’re such a fucking liar" he retorted, his voice like a knife. "You’re supposed to love me."
"I do"
"Then why the does it feel like I’m always fighting for you or with you?" he whispered, voice cracking.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The air was heavy, suffocating. Then he grabbed his jacket, his movements stiff with rage.
"Where are you going?" she demanded, her voice cracking.
"Anywhere but here" he said coldly, yanking the door open.
"Tom, don’t.."
He didn’t even look at her as he slammed the door behind him.
And just like that, he was gone. The silence that followed was deafening. Jules stood there, shaking, her chest heaving with sobs she couldn’t hold back anymore. Slowly, she sank to the floor, clutching her knees to her chest.
For the first time, she wondered if this was the end.
Tom’s relationship with his son has always been incredibly important to him. Even though he and Louis’ mother separated years ago, he has made every effort to be a present and devoted father. When Tom first moved to New York for work, leaving London behind, it was the hardest decision he’d ever made - not because he didn’t love his career, but because it meant putting an ocean between him and his son.
Louis has always lived in London with his mum, growing up in the city where Tom himself was raised. From the beginning, Tom and his ex-partner had an agreement that, despite the distance, he would remain a constant in Louis’ life. They set up a strict schedule - weekly FaceTime calls, long weekends together whenever Tom had a break, and extended summer holidays spent between film sets and New York.
Tom was never the kind of father to just send gifts or check in when it was convenient. He flew back to London at every opportunity, often for just a couple of days if that was all his schedule allowed. He never wanted Louis to feel like he was just a visitor in his life. When they were together, Tom made sure those moments were filled with adventure - taking him to football matches, exploring hidden corners of the city, or just staying in and watching movies, piled up on the couch with junk food.
The hardest part was the goodbyes. Every time he had to return to New York, Louis would hug him tight, trying not to cry, and Tom would put on a brave face, even though it broke his heart. He always told Louis the same thing: "You’re my number one, mate. Doesn’t matter where I am in the world, yeah? I’m always your dad."
When Louis got older, things got a little easier. He started flying out to New York more often, spending holidays and even some school breaks with Tom. That’s when Jules became a bigger part of his life - at first, she was just this cool, funny woman who made sarcastic jokes and let him stay up late, but over time, she became something more. A constant, a person he could rely on. She never tried to act like a stepmum, and maybe that’s why he loved her so much - she was just Jules.
Even now, with Tom building a life in New York, he and Louis keep their bond strong. And no matter what, Tom knows one thing for certain: his son will never feel like he’s anything less than the most important person in his world.
And that's why, one day, Jules turned out to be a total idiot.
It was three days before Louis’ arrival when Tom brought it up. They were in bed, half-watching something on TV, Jules nestled against his side, lazily tracing patterns on his forearm. Tom had his phone in one hand, scrolling through emails, when he suddenly turned to her.
"Jules, can you do me a favor?"
Jules made a noncommittal hum, not looking away from the screen. "Depends. Am I gonna regret saying yes?"
Tom smirked. "Dunno. Guess we’ll find out." He locked his phone and placed it on the nightstand. "Can you pick up Louis from JFK on Friday? I’ve got that meeting in the afternoon, and I don’t wanna cut it too close."
Jules finally looked up at him. "Yeah, of course. What time’s his flight?"
"Lands at three-fifteen. I’ll send you the details."
She nodded easily. "No problem. I’ll be there."
Tom smiled, kissed the top of her head, and went back to his emails, already checking it off in his mind as handled.
It was around noon when Tom was getting ready to leave. He was standing by the front door, pulling on his jacket, while Jules sat cross-legged on the couch, sipping coffee and flipping through her phone.
"Right, I’m off," Tom said, adjusting his collar. "You’re good for Louis, yeah?"
Jules, half-distracted, looked up with a lazy smile. "Yeah, yeah. I got it."
Tom paused, giving her a look. "You sure?"
She rolled her eyes, setting her coffee down. "Tom. I’m not an idiot."
He huffed a laugh, grabbing his keys. "Debatable." He opened the door, then pointed at her. "Three-fifteen, JFK. Don’t be late."
Jules threw a cushion at him. "Get out."
Tom dodged it effortlessly, grinning as he stepped out. "Love you!"
"Yeah, yeah. Love you too."
And just like that, he was gone.
The day had slipped away so easily.
Jules had met up with Samantha and Miranda for brunch - just something casual, a quick catch-up before the weekend. But, of course, with them, quick never actually meant quick. One coffee turned into three, because none of them had anywhere to be.
Jules was laughing, mid-story about some disaster client at her school, when her phone vibrated on the table. She ignored it at first. Probably just an email. But then it buzzed again. And again.
She picked it up lazily, squinting at the screen.
Tom.
Her stomach dropped.
She swiped to open the messages.
"Hey, all good?"
"Jules?"
"Tell me you're at JFK right now."
"Answer the fucking phone."
Her brain short-circuited for a second. And then, like a slow-motion car crash, it hit her.
Louis. The airport. Oh, my God.
She shot up so fast her chair nearly tipped over. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit!"
Miranda blinked at her. "What the hell?"
"I was supposed to pick up Louis." Jules’ voice was barely more than a whisper, panic choking her. She grabbed her bag with shaking hands. "Tom is going to fucking kill me."
Samantha's eyes widened. "Wait, what time was his flight?"
Jules was already backing away from the table, frantically pulling up her phone. "Landed at three-fifteen." She checked the time. 3:52 PM.
"Fuck" Miranda winced. "That’s bad."
"No shit!" Jules hissed, rushing toward the exit.
Her fingers were already dialing Tom as she practically ran out onto the street, flagging down the first cab she could find. He picked up on the first ring.
"Where the fuck are you?"
Jules winced. His voice was tight, furious - but not loud. Which was worse.
"Tom, I..."
"Just tell me where you are."
"I’m.." She hesitated, knowing how it would sound. "SoHo."
Silence. Then a low, disbelieving laugh. Jules squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against her temple. "I...yes. I fucked up, I know. I’m getting in a cab now, I can be there in...."
"Don’t bother."
That one hurt.
"Tom."
"I’ll figure it out." His voice was clipped, controlled, but she could hear the disappointment bleeding through. "He landed forty minutes ago, Jules."
Guilt punched her in the stomach.
"I’m sorry" she whispered.
A pause. Then, a quiet, bitter chuckle.
"Yeah" Tom muttered. "Me too."
And then he hung up.
The second Tom walked through the door, she knew.
"Where is he?" Jules asked.
"My friend took care of him. They’re at the cinema."
He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t slamming things. He wasn’t even looking at her. And that was worse.
He set down his keys, took off his jacket, then stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed. His jaw was so tight it looked painful.
Jules swallowed hard. "Tom..."
"You forgot." He finally looked at her. "Not because you got held up. Not because of some emergency. You forgot my son."
Her chest ached. "I know. I fucked up..."
"Fucked up?" Tom let out a humorless laugh. "Fucked up is leaving your coffee on the roof of your car. This?" He shook his head. "This is bullshit, Jules."
"I know" she whispered. "I have no excuse"
"Then don’t fucking talk" he snapped, voice suddenly sharp. "Because I don’t want to hear it."
Jules blinked, stunned. He never spoke to her like that. Never.
Tom exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair. "Do you have any fucking idea how bad that could’ve gone?" His voice was raw now, furious in a different way. "He’s a kid, Jules. A kid. And he was alone, waiting for me - except it wasn’t gonna be me, because I trusted you to be there."
Her stomach twisted. "Tom, I swear to God, I..."
"You what?" His voice rose. "You’re sorry? No shit, Jules. I don’t care that you’re sorry."
Her throat closed. "I don’t..."
"You always have your shit together" he cut her off, voice shaking with anger. "You’re the most capable fucking person I know. But this? This is what you drop the ball on?"
Jules bit her lip, trying to breathe.
Tom shook his head, pacing. "He asked where you were. He was waiting for you. And when you didn’t show, do you know what I had to do? I had to fucking explain." He let out a sharp breath. "I had to lie, Jules. To my own fucking kid. Because I couldn’t look him in the face and tell him the truth - that you forgot he existed."
"I didn’t forget him" she rasped.
"You did" he shot back. "Not intentionally, not forever, but you fucking did." His voice cracked slightly, and his hands clenched into fists. "And I- Jules, I cannot afford that. I cannot afford people in his life who forget him."
Tears burned at the back of her throat. "Tom..."
"No" he cut her off. "You do not get to cry right now."
That made her snap. "What the fuck do you want from me, then?" she snapped back, voice breaking. "You want me to hate myself? Mission accomplished."
Tom’s jaw locked. "I want you to get it. I want you to understand that when it comes to Louis, I do not play."
Jules went silent.
"And what if it had gone worse? What if he had wandered off? What if he had gotten hurt? Would that be enough for you to really fucking hate yourself?"
Tom exhaled sharply, then finally, finally - his voice broke. "You are the only person I trust with him." His face was tight, like he was holding back everything. "And today, you made me question that."
Jules felt her heart crack.
She opened her mouth, but he shook his head.
And walked out.
Jules heard the door open and immediately sat up on the couch, her heart hammering. She turned just in time to see Tom step inside, Louis right behind him, looking completely unbothered - actually, more than that. The kid was beaming.
"Hi, Jules!" Louis chirped, dropping his backpack onto the floor.
Jules blinked. "Hey, bud." She forced a smile, waiting for… something. A sign that he was upset, that he had been scared or angry. But no. Louis looked thrilled.
"You won’t believe it" he grinned, eyes shining with excitement. "I was all alone at the airport. Just me! I felt like Kevin from Home Alone! It was so cool."
Jules let out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. "Oh. Uh… yeah? That’s… that’s great, Lou."
It wasn’t great. It was a disaster.
She glanced at Tom. He was closing the door, moving with slow, deliberate motions. Too quiet. Too controlled.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a word.
Louis, completely oblivious to the tension in the room, kept talking, reenacting his grand airport adventure with dramatic gestures. Jules tried to nod along, but her focus kept drifting to Tom, to the way he placed his keys on the counter without a sound.
Jules swallowed hard. The guilt, which had been gnawing at her all afternoon, sank in even deeper.
Tom was punishing her. Not with words. But with silence.
The evening stretched on in an uncomfortable, tense quiet. Jules sat on the couch, absently flipping through a magazine, but her attention was constantly on Tom and Louis. They were in the kitchen now, laughing over something Louis had said, Tom’s laugh sounding forced but polite, like it was coming out of him mechanically.
She tried to engage - offering to make dinner or asking if Louis wanted to watch a movie - but everything she said was met with distracted, nonchalant replies. Tom was laser-focused on Louis, giving him his undivided attention. And it was obvious.
Tom made sure Louis had everything he needed, asking about his day, listening intently to the stories about his flight and the absurd "Kevin" comparison Louis had come up with. He even set up the couch for Louis to sleep on without a word to Jules, as if she were invisible, as if he were alone with his son in the room.
Jules stayed quiet, not because she didn’t want to speak, but because she didn’t know what to say. Every attempt felt like she was intruding on their bubble.
Louis, so full of energy and excitement, didn’t notice. He was busy setting up his toys on the coffee table, chattering away about whatever popped into his head. Every now and then, he’d glance at Jules, offering her a bright smile, but it didn’t last long. He was more focused on the game he was creating in his mind, lost in his own world, oblivious to the thick tension that seemed to have settled in the room.
Jules kept looking over at Tom, hoping for some sort of acknowledgment, some sign that everything was fine. But Tom was too absorbed in Louis to spare her even a glance. The silence between them was louder than any argument could have been.
By the time they all sat down to dinner, Tom had already excused himself twice to check on something for work. Louis, still too caught up in the excitement of the day, didn’t notice the distance between them. Jules picked at her food, her appetite lost, while Tom asked Louis more questions, leaning in just a little too much, hanging on every word like Louis had just won the Nobel Prize.
And Jules sat there. Alone. In her own home.
Tom sat next to Louis on the couch, half-watching the TV, half-lost in his own thoughts. He’d tried to push aside the nagging tension in his chest, the quiet anger that had settled ever since they’d gotten home. But it lingered, making it hard to focus on anything else. Louis was happy, laughing at some dumb joke in the show, and Tom tried to match his energy, to be the dad Louis needed him to be. He tried to ignore the coldness between him and Jules.
They were both pretending. She was pretending nothing had happened, and he was pretending he could just go on as if things were normal. But it wasn’t normal. It felt off.
Louis had excused himself, mumbling something about needing a drink. Tom didn’t think much of it - his son was always bouncing around the house like a pinball, so he didn’t pay attention to the small details. He heard Louis open the fridge, heard the rustle of the juice box, but then Louis was standing in front of him again.
Louis’s voice was small when he spoke, but there was an undertone of concern Tom hadn’t expected.
"Dad… Jules is crying."
The words hit him harder than he anticipated.
Tom blinked, a moment of disbelief flashing across his face. "What?"
Louis shrugged, his face serious. "I don’t know. I just saw her in the kitchen."
Tom stood up slowly, his feet feeling heavier than usual. Maybe he had been too harsh with her, maybe the silence was too much. But he’d been hurt too, and he didn’t know how else to show it.
Walking toward the kitchen, Tom’s thoughts were jumbled. What the hell was I thinking? He could hear Jules softly sniffing, her back turned to him. She didn’t notice him coming, or maybe she didn’t care. He stopped in the doorway, not sure how to even approach her. The distance between them felt insurmountable.
He’d been so angry when he’d come back home, frustrated with how she’d dropped the ball with Louis. But now, seeing her there, so small and vulnerable, he felt the anger slowly begin to slip away.
"Jules" he said quietly, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar softness. "Would you come and sit with us? Louis would like it. I’d like it."
He waited, hoping she would turn around, that she would acknowledge him, but she didn’t. Her shoulders were tense, her body still facing the sink, and he couldn’t see her face - only the back of her head, her hair slightly disheveled from her earlier frustration.
She just shook her head. It was a small, defeated motion, but it sent a wave of regret crashing through him. He knew why she wouldn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t, not when she felt like this.
Tom didn’t push her. He couldn’t. Instead, he took a step forward, closing the space between them. He reached out, not to say anything, but just to be there. To let her know, in the only way he knew how, that he wasn’t going anywhere.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly from behind. He didn’t say anything more - didn’t try to explain, didn’t try to fix it. He just held her, feeling the tension in her body, the weight of her guilt, and all the things she wasn’t saying.
Her shoulders trembled slightly under his touch, and he could feel her fighting the urge to let go, to let the tears come. But he didn’t move. He just stayed there, pressing his face into her hair
Tom stared at his phone for a moment longer than necessary, as if staring at it would somehow prevent Leo DiCaprio from calling Jules. He knew, deep down, that he had absolutely no right to interfere in her life like this, but the mere thought of Leo, with his sultry smile and infamous charm, getting anywhere near Jules made his stomach churn. Maybe it was just the coffee he’d had - who even knew at this point?
He sighed deeply (a dramatic sigh, like a man who's contemplating the meaning of life or his next career move), and finally dialed Jules. The phone rang twice before she picked up, and Tom immediately felt like he was walking into some kind of trap.
"Heeeeeey” he said, trying to sound calm, cool, and collected (but failing miserably). “How’s it going? You know... chill?”
“Oh, you know, same old, same old" Jules replied, sounding half-amused and half-bored, like she'd just been through a week-long movie marathon of The Bachelor. "I’m working. Trying to survive.”
Tom cleared his throat. "Well, uh... I wanted to give you a little... warning. It’s probably nothing, but... Leo might, you know, reach out to you."
There was a pause. A very long pause. One that seemed to stretch out for decades.
“Jack Dawson?” she asked, her voice a mix of surprise and disbelief.
He needed a moment to understand the joke. “Yeah, that one” Tom said, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m just giving you a heads-up. If he calls or texts or shows up at your door with a puppy in hand or whatever, just, uh, you know, be careful. He’s kind of a flirt.”
Jules snorted loudly, and Tom felt his heart rate increase in a weird mix of dread and annoyance. “Seriously? Is that why you’re calling? To warn me about Leo DiCaprio? He’s not the first guy who’s ever flirted with me, you know.”
“Well... he might be the most dangerous” Tom added with a deep sigh. “Like, world-class level flirtation. Like... one smile and you might just accidentally end up on a yacht in the Caribbean or something. And who needs that, right? You’re a busy woman.”
Jules let out a laugh that made Tom feel a little less ridiculous, but not much. “Thanks for the heads-up, Tom. But I think I can handle it. I’m not some naive damsel waiting for Leo DiCaprio to come sweep me off my feet, okay? I’ve got standards.”
“Oh, I know” Tom said quickly, trying to backpedal. “I mean, you have way better taste than that, obviously. I’m just saying, he’s not the ‘settle down and get a dog’ type. You know?”
Jules paused, then said, “Not exactly looking for that kind of relationship at the moment, Tom, but... thanks for the unsolicited warning. I’m fine. Really.”
“Right. Right. Of course, you are” Tom said, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
“Anything else, or do you need to text me a list of other Hollywood men I should avoid?”
He was about to say something when suddenly he heard the sound of someone entering Jules' office. The soft click of the door opening was followed by a hushed voice speaking to her.
"Hold on a second, Tom" Jules said quickly, her tone shifting to professional mode. "I’ll be with you in a minute."
Tom listened as Jules spoke, her voice crisp and controlled.
"Whoever did this needs to fix it, and I’ll be there to watch over it. Tell them I’ll attend the next meeting and we’ll go through everything, line by line. I don’t tolerate mistakes like this. They’ll learn the hard way if they think I won’t notice."
Tom raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t help but be impressed. There was no hesitation in her voice, no second-guessing, just pure authority. It was clear she wasn’t the kind of boss anyone would want to cross. He found himself both a little awed and, if he was honest, more than a little intimidated.
She came back on the line. “Sorry about that. Where were we? Ah, yes. I have to wrap this up now, Tom. I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes, and I need to get a few things in order before I go.”
Tom could hear the efficient way she handled things. “Of course” he replied, his voice a little quieter now, still processing the tone of authority he’d just heard. “I’ll let you go. Catch you later.”
Jules sighed lightly, but there was something almost affectionate in her tone. "Talk soon, Tom."
When Tom hung up, he was almost certain that Jules had already completely forgotten what they’d been talking about.
For the next few nights, Tom couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he was hit with a series of increasingly ridiculous and gut-wrenching nightmares about Jules and Leo. What had started as a mild annoyance had now spiraled into a full-blown psychological siege.
First nightmare began in the most disarming way, as dreams often do. He found himself sitting at a candlelit table at some impossibly chic restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters wore tuxedos and the menus didn’t have prices. Across from him sat Jules, laughing at something, her smile lighting up the room. It was nice. Comforting. Until Tom realized that she wasn’t laughing at him.
No, sitting beside her, looking infuriatingly dashing in a perfectly tailored suit, was Leo. Tom watched helplessly as Leo leaned in, brushing a strand of Jules’ hair from her face with that infuriating movie-star charm. Jules looked up at him with that sparkle in her eyes and giggled. Jules. Giggled.
Tom opened his mouth to interrupt, to say… something, but no words came out. Instead, the restaurant morphed around them, the soft clink of glasses and murmured conversations dissolving into the sound of cobblestones underfoot.
Now they were walking hand-in-hand down a sun-drenched Parisian street. Paris. Of course. Jules was wearing some effortlessly chic outfit Tom had never seen her wear, and Leo had his arm slung around her shoulders like he owned the place. Tom trailed a few steps behind, inexplicably barefoot, and holding… a baguette? He tried to catch up, but every time he moved closer, they seemed to glide further away, laughing like he wasn’t even there.
And then, things took a sharp turn into the absurd.
They were at one of Leo’s infamous Hollywood parties now, all shimmering lights and clinking champagne glasses. Jules, now wearing a gown that could pay off Tom’s mortgage, was surrounded by impossibly glamorous people. She was laughing at something Leo said, her head thrown back like he was suddenly the funniest man alive. Tom, stuck on the outskirts of the group, awkwardly held a plate of snacks that kept replenishing itself no matter how many crab cakes he tried to eat.
He cleared his throat, trying to join the conversation, but Jules turned to him, her eyes twinkling with something that looked like pity. “Not now, Tom” she said lightly, before turning back to Leo, who draped an arm over her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then came the final, gut-wrenching blow.
Leo leaned down, kissed Jules, and she kissed him back. But it wasn’t just a kiss - it was the kind of kiss that made rom-com audiences swoon, with orchestral music swelling in the background. Tom stood frozen, the plate of crab cakes slipping from his hands.
Then, as if this nightmare couldn’t get any worse, Jules broke the kiss to look straight at him. “Tom” she said sweetly, her voice echoing in that bizarre, distorted way dreams sometimes have. “Don’t look so shocked.”
Leo smirked, raising his champagne flute in a mock toast. “Don’t worry, man. There’s someone out there for you too.”
The crowd around them erupted into laughter - deep, mocking laughter that grew louder and louder until it drowned out everything else. Tom tried to shout, to defend himself, but the sound wouldn’t come.
He woke up with a start, his heart pounding, drenched in sweat.
The room was dark and silent, save for the muffled hum of the city outside his window. For a moment, Tom just sat there, running his hands through his hair and trying to calm his racing thoughts.
The second night of Tom’s nightmares started at a red-carpet event, the kind where everyone looked airbrushed in real life. Jules was there, wearing a gown so stunning it seemed to have been spun from the stars. Tom’s brain immediately short-circuited, but the feeling only worsened when he noticed Leo standing beside her, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh.
A camera flash went off, capturing the perfect moment: Jules, grinning like she’d just been named the new face of luxury toothpaste, and Leo, looking every inch the smug movie star, as though he’d simultaneously won an Oscar, saved a panda, and discovered the cure for world hunger.
Tom, who had been standing somewhere in the background like an underdressed extra, felt a hand on his shoulder. A reporter turned to him, looking vaguely annoyed. “Hey, buddy, could you step aside? You’re blocking the shot.”
The scene morphed without warning, plunging Tom into a sun-dappled garden brunch. Naturally, Jules and Leo were at the center of it, sitting at a rustic table that looked like it had been ripped straight out of an influencer’s Instagram feed.
Jules, now in oversized sunglasses and a breezy linen dress, was laughing at something Leo had said. Leo, with all the swagger of a man who had personally pressed the orange juice they were drinking, poured her a mimosa.
Jules sighed dramatically after a sip. “God, Leo, you’ve ruined regular orange juice for me. It tastes like sadness now.”
“Right?” Leo leaned in closer, as if they were the only two people in the world. “Once you go fresh-squeezed, there’s no going back.”
Tom found himself seated awkwardly at the far end of the table, inexplicably holding a plate of scrambled eggs. He tried to cut in. “So, Jules, remember when we found that diner with pancakes the size of....”
“Oh, Tom” Jules interrupted, not even glancing his way. “Leo and I are gluten-free now. You should try it. It’s life-changing.”
Leo nodded sympathetically, giving Tom the kind of pitying look that only Leo DiCaprio in a nightmare could pull off. “Yeah, man. It might help with the… you know.” He gestured vaguely toward Tom’s midsection.
Tom looked down and, to his horror, saw that in this dream, he was wearing a shirt at least two sizes too small.
The scene dissolved again. Jules and Leo were hosting their dinner party, in their Malibu beach house, which Leo had apparently purchased for them because of course he had.
Jules, seated at the head of the table like the queen of Malibu, was effortlessly charming a group of impossibly attractive people. The breeze wafted through the open windows, candles flickered dramatically, and everyone laughed at exactly the right moments, as if choreographed by a Hollywood director.
Tom, stuck at the far end of the table next to “Guy #4” from The Avengers, tried to contribute. “So, Jules, remember when you accidentally spilled an entire coffee on my....”
“Oh, Tom” Jules said, waving him off with an indulgent laugh. “Nobody’s interested.”
The table erupted into laughter, except for Tom, who stared at his plate like it had personally insulted him.
Leo leaned back in his chair, raising his glass. “To Jules” he said, his smile gleaming. “The best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Everyone cheered, while Tom sank lower and lower in his chair, feeling like a punchline to a joke he didn’t understand.
He jolted awake in his bed, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. It was 2:19 a.m. He stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding. This was the second night in a row of this madness.
The third night brought with it the most absurd and soul-crushing nightmare yet. It began with Jules and Leo on a yacht. The kind of vessel that made you question whether its owner was a billionaire, a Bond villain, or some unholy combination of both.
Jules was draped in a flowing white sundress, the fabric fluttering in the breeze like it had its own wind machine. Perched on her head was a massive straw hat, the brim so wide it could’ve doubled as a sunshade for the entire deck. She reclined on a deck chair, holding a cocktail that sparkled in a way cocktails had no business sparkling, probably because it was infused with crushed diamonds or some equally ridiculous ingredient.
Leo stood beside her, shirtless, because of course he was, handing her the drink with that casual movie-star charm. “Anything for my muse” he said, flashing his million-dollar smile.
Jules took the glass with an effortless laugh that somehow echoed across the open sea. “Tom who?” she said when one of the impeccably dressed crew members asked about her former friends. “Oh, you mean my old life? I don’t do ‘old life’ anymore. It’s all champagne and sunsets now.”
Cut to Tom, miles away, struggling to paddle a sad little kayak that looked like it had been borrowed from a children’s summer camp. He wore a life vest that seemed too tight, a bucket hat that was too big, and a look of desperation. “Jules!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Jules! It’s me!”
Jules didn’t even flinch, as if his voice was nothing more than the ocean breeze. Meanwhile, Tom’s kayak seemed to have a mind of its own, veering wildly off course no matter how hard he paddled.
And then, the kicker: a massive sea lion surfaced beside him. It stared at him with an unnervingly judgmental expression, let out a bark that sounded suspiciously like laughter, and promptly rammed the kayak with its blubbery body.
Tom toppled into the water with a strangled yelp, surfacing just in time to see Jules clink glasses with Leo as the yacht sailed off into the horizon. The sun set dramatically behind them, casting them in a golden glow as if nature itself was rooting for their happiness.
As Tom splashed helplessly in the waves, the sea lion circled him like it was considering whether to nudge him toward shore or let him figure it out himself.
Tom woke up in a cold sweat. He groaned, pressing a pillow over his face. “This has to stop” he muttered.
By the fourth night, he was actively avoiding sleep, afraid of what fresh humiliation his subconscious might conjure up. He’d started drinking more coffee than usual, pacing around his apartment at all hours, and muttering to himself.
“This is insane” he said, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “They’re not even dating. You’re making this up.”
But the thought of losing her, of her forgetting about him, of becoming just another story she told at parties with Leo - was unbearable. He didn’t even care if she dated Leo or anyone else (okay, he did care, but he wasn’t ready to admit that). What he cared about was the idea that their bond, their easy friendship, could disappear just like that.
By the time the fifth night rolled around, Tom had reached his breaking point. He had another nightmare, this one involving Jules, Leo, and a tropical island where Tom had been relegated to the role of their personal butler - but instead of waking up in a cold sweat like before, he shot upright in bed and said out loud:
“That’s it. I’m losing my mind.”
Suddenly, he couldn’t wait any longer. At 3:17 a.m., Tom, teetering on the edge of panic, grabbed his phone and dialed Jules’s number. The phone rang once, twice, three times. No answer. His heart sank. But then....
“Hello?”
Tom nearly jumped out of his skin. Jules sounded groggy, as if he’d dragged her out of the deepest corners of dreamland. Her voice was soft and concerned, not annoyed, and somehow that made him feel both infinitely better and profoundly worse. He hadn’t even thought of an excuse for calling.
“Jules” Tom began, his voice cracking slightly in a way that only made him cringe harder. “Hey, it’s me. Tom.”
“I know it’s you.”
“Sorry. Did I wake you?” He winced. Of course, you woke her, genius.
There was a pause. Tom’s mind raced, bracing for her to sound cold or irritated, like in his recurring nightmare - or worse, like she did when she was talking to her assistant. Instead, she let out a sleepy chuckle.
“What’s going on? It’s the middle of the night.”
Tom hesitated, scrambling for a safe response. “I couldn’t sleep. Just… had a weird dream.”
Jules yawned audibly. “Was I in it?”
Tom laughed despite himself. “Yeah, you were there.”
“Oh no.” Her voice brightened slightly, amused. “Was it one of those dreams where I’m a serial killer? Because, for the record, I’d make a terrible criminal. Too chatty. I’d spill everything during the monologue.”
Tom chuckled, the tightness in his chest easing a little. “No, not quite that dramatic.”
“Damn. Missed opportunity. So, what’s up?”
He hesitated again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. How could he explain without sounding like a complete lunatic? He couldn’t exactly say, I called because I’m terrified you’re going to run off with Leonardo DiCaprio and leave me to live my days as a rejected kayaker?
“I don’t know, Jules” he finally admitted, “but it felt real, and… I just needed to hear you still… you know, like me. As a friend, I mean. Still friends, right?”
There was a pause long enough for Tom to feel like the dumbest person alive. He could practically hear the gears turning in her head as she processed his bizarre, unnecessary late-night confession.
“Of course, you dork” she said, her voice light with affection, punctuated by another yawn.
Tom exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Right. Right” he murmured, feeling both embarrassed and relieved. “I just… uh, needed to hear that. And, Jules?”
“Yeah?”
“Promise me you’ll never move to Malibu?” he blurted suddenly. “Or, like, go live in some tropical place, and I never see you again?”
Jules laughed - a genuine, sleepy laugh that made him grin despite himself. “Why would I move to Malibu?”
“That’s what people do” he argued. “One day you’re just doing laundry and buying groceries, and the next thing you know, you’re on a yacht with some really talented Hollywood actor.”
“With you?”
“What?”
“You’re the first person I think of when I hear ‘really talented Hollywood actor’ at three in the morning.”
“Oh…” For a moment, he forgot that he was an actor. “No, I wasn’t talking about me. Just, you know, in general. Never mind. Just… no Malibu, okay?”
There was a beat of silence. Then Jules, sounding both amused and exasperated, said firmly, “Tom, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. And I once dated someone who thought spaghetti grew on trees.”
Tom let out a startled laugh. “I’m serious, Jules.”
“So am I” she replied. “Look, you’re stuck with me. Even if you send me one more playlist titled Melancholy Rain on a Tuesday Afternoon.”
Tom smiled, warmth spreading through his chest as the knot of anxiety loosened. “Hey, those are curated playlists.”
“Sure they are” she teased. Her tone softened. “I can’t even begin to explain how ridiculous you sound right now. But here’s the thing, Tom: I’m definitely not moving to Malibu. So chill.”
“Because if you did, I’d probably just move into your closet and live there until you remembered me.”
“I’ll ask you one last time: are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I am. But at least I’m not calling you in the middle of the night every week to ask if we’re still friends” he said, then quickly added, “Not that I plan to do that. This is a one-time thing.”
“Oh, I know. I’m going to remember this forever” Jules replied, her voice playful now. She chuckled. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I’m cute?” he repeated, his chest swelling with a mix of disbelief and pride. “You said cute? Not ‘acceptable’ or ‘fine,’ but actually cute?”
Jules laughed again. “Oh, absolutely. Don’t get used to it, though. It’s three in the morning, and I’m half asleep. Tomorrow, I might start calling you ‘average.’ Now, go to bed. No more bad dreams, kid. And don’t call me at three a.m. unless it’s an emergency or you’ve accidentally set yourself on fire.”
Tom chuckled. “Got it. Goodnight, Jules.”
“Night.”
He stared at his phone for a moment after she hung up, feeling like he’d just made the most ridiculous call of his life. But at least he had one thing to hold onto: she still liked him.
It was one of those cold, crisp mornings in New York City where everything felt sharper — sharper than Jules's wit, sharper than the tone she'd used on her assistant that morning, sharper even than the double-shot espresso she was currently downing at her favorite corner café. She sat by the window, scrolling through emails on her phone, her perfectly manicured nails clicking rhythmically against the table.
The bell above the door jingled. Jules didn’t bother to look up; New York was a revolving door of humanity, and she rarely cared to see who was coming or going. But then she heard the voice — light, familiar, with a touch of awkward enthusiasm that immediately grated against her well-honed cynicism.
"Jules! Oh my God, it’s been ages!"
Jules glanced up, her perfectly arched eyebrow lifting in reflex. It was Celeste, a woman she and Tom had known in their earlier, wilder months — back when brunches lasted till dinner and "boundaries" was just a word other people used. Celeste was harmless enough, a little too earnest for Jules’s taste, but not completely insufferable.
"Celeste" Jules said, her voice like dry champagne — light and cutting. "It has been ages. Didn’t think you were still haunting Manhattan. What brings you here? Failed Pilates studio? Pyramid scheme? Or are you just here to see how real people live?"
Celeste laughed nervously. Jules had that effect on people. "Actually, I moved back a couple of weeks ago. Work stuff. You know how it is."
Jules leaned back, crossing her legs in that effortless way that made her look like a Vogue editorial come to life. "Oh, I’m sure your work is riveting. Let me guess, you’re still doing… What was it? PR for rich men’s charity events where the only thing being donated is their wives’ patience?"
"Something like that" Celeste replied with a grin. She pulled out the chair across from Jules without asking. Ballsy, Jules thought. She liked that — until Celeste opened her mouth again.
"I ran into Tom the other day, by the way. Small world, huh?"
Jules’s smile didn’t falter, but her grip on her espresso cup tightened. "Tom? My Tom?"
"Well, I assume he’s still yours" Celeste said, oblivious to the razor blade tone. "It was on Madison Avenue. He was at that little bar near the park. You know, the one with the ridiculously overpriced charcuterie boards?"
Jules gave a noncommittal hum, her mind now racing at a thousand miles per hour.
"He was with someone, actually" Celeste added, her voice dropping slightly, as though trying to sound casual. "I didn’t want to bother them, but I thought it was so cute how they were laughing together. She was gorgeous, by the way. A brunette. Very chic. You’d probably love her."
Jules blinked once, then twice. Her laugh came out like the sharp crack of glass breaking. "Oh, darling, would I? Please, tell me more about this riveting tête-à-tête my boyfriend was having."
Celeste blinked, her cheery façade faltering. "I’m sure it was nothing. I mean, they could’ve just been friends or...."
Jules cut her off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, spare me the Hallmark monologue, Celeste. If Tom Hardy is out with a chic brunette while I’m sitting here freezing my ass off, trust me, I want to know every single detail."
There was a beat of silence, Celeste visibly squirming under Jules’s piercing gaze. "I didn’t mean to upset you…"
"Upset me?" Jules let out a bark of laughter. "Sweetheart, I’m just curious. After all, my life is so boring, you know. It’s not every day a bird flies in to chirp about my man’s extracurricular activities."
Celeste looked like she was searching for an escape route. She stammered a quick goodbye and fled, leaving Jules alone with her thoughts.
Jules had always prided herself on her ability to compartmentalize. It was how she managed two successful businesses, a high-profile relationship, and a social life that would exhaust most people. But this? This was different. It was personal, and she hated personal — it was messy, unpredictable, and prone to emotions she didn’t have time for.
Sitting in their apartment, Jules stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, dabbing on a bold red lipstick. The act was both ritualistic and strategic; nothing screamed "unbothered" like a perfect pout. Still, her thoughts swirled, her mind replaying Celeste’s words over and over.
"Gorgeous brunette."
"Laughing together."
"You’d probably love her."
The nerve.
She needed to talk this out, but not with just anyone. Jules reached for her phone and texted the group chat.
Emergency. Cosmo time. My place. Now.
It didn’t take long for the cavalry to arrive. Samantha was first, strutting in with her signature oversized sunglasses and enough perfume to announce her presence from the hallway. "What’s the drama, darling? Did someone finally call out your Prada boots as last season?"
Miranda arrived next, carrying a bottle of wine and wearing her typical "no-nonsense" look.
Finally, Charlotte showed up, her doe eyes wide with concern. "Oh no, is it Tom? Is he okay? Are you okay?"
"Relax" Jules said, pouring herself a drink. "Nobody’s dead. Yet."
She sat them down in the living room, handing out glasses before taking her own.
"Celeste" Jules began, her tone venomous "ran into Tom the other day. Apparently, he was having a good time with some mysterious brunette."
The room collectively froze.
"Was it business?" Charlotte asked, ever the optimist.
"Unlikely" Jules replied, swirling her drink. "She used the word laughing. If there’s one thing Tom doesn’t do in meetings, it’s laugh."
Samantha leaned back, crossing her legs with a smirk. "Well, well. This is spicy. Did you ask him?"
"Not yet." Jules sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I don’t want to look like a psycho, okay? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s something? I’m trying to avoid a full-on Lifetime movie here."
"Do you believe him?" Miranda asked.
Jules paused. "I don’t know. That’s the problem. I trust him, but we’re both cynical bastards. If anyone knows how easy it is to slip, it’s us."
"Then talk to him" Charlotte said gently. "But calmly. You don’t need to accuse him of anything — just ask."
Samantha rolled her eyes. "Boring. If it were me, I’d show up at his dinner with the brunette and order the most expensive bottle of champagne. But sure, talking works too."
Jules smirked. "Tempting, but no. I’ll ask him. No drama, no fireworks. Just… clarity."
The next morning, Jules got up early, her usual routine feeling strangely heavy. She dressed in her usual understated chic — black cigarette pants, a fitted cashmere sweater, and ankle boots that clicked with authority on the hardwood floors. Her hair was tied back, sleek and severe, a perfect counterpoint to her sharp gaze.
Before heading out to meet Tom, she sat down at her desk, opening her laptop. She wasn’t going into this blind. Jules had made a habit of staying one step ahead — business, friendships, relationships — it didn’t matter. A quick search of Tom’s schedule revealed he’d had a gap during the time Celeste claimed to have seen him.
"Convenient" she muttered, taking a sip of her coffee.
She also checked his social media — nothing incriminating there. In fact, the last post was a picture of the two of them at a charity gala.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Tom.
Leaving set early. Want to grab lunch?
Jules stared at the screen for a moment, then typed back.
Sure. That Italian place near Soho?
Perfect. See you at 1.
Jules arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. She didn’t like being caught off guard, and it gave her the chance to observe people as they came in — though today, her mind was too preoccupied to enjoy her usual mental commentary on strangers’ fashion choices.
Tom walked in exactly on time, his effortless charm filling the room as he strolled to their table. He kissed her on the cheek and slid into the chair across from her, flashing that infuriatingly disarming smile.
"You look good" he said, his voice low and easy.
"Of course I do" she replied smoothly, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. "And you’re late."
"I’m literally on time" he shot back, grinning as he picked up the menu.
"Only technically" Jules leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed, watching him with a measured gaze.
The waiter came, they ordered, and the conversation danced around their usual topics — work, friends, upcoming plans. But Jules wasn’t one to skirt the edges of what was bothering her. When their drinks arrived, she set her glass down deliberately and fixed her gaze on Tom.
"So," she said, her voice casual, but with an undercurrent of steel. "Celeste said she saw you the other day."
Tom didn’t look up from his glass. He swirled the drink lazily, as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. "Oh yeah? How is she?"
"Annoying, as usual" Jules replied, her tone sharp. "But that’s not the point. She said she saw you having lunch with some brunette. Very chic, apparently."
Tom finally looked up, his expression neutral. "Did she now?"
"That’s what I said."
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I don’t know what she’s talking about. Probably mixing me up with someone else."
"She seemed pretty confident it was you" Jules said, her voice tighter now. "Madison Avenue? That little bar near the park?"
Tom’s jaw twitched — a small movement, but Jules caught it. "Oh, that. Yeah, I was there. Business meeting."
"With a brunette?"
"Does it matter?" Tom’s tone was light, almost dismissive. "It was just work, Jules. Nothing to get bent out of shape about."
"I’m not bent out of shape" she shot back, her eyes narrowing. "I’m just asking. You don’t have to act like I’m accusing you of murder."
Tom exhaled sharply and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Look, it was nothing, okay? A quick meeting. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning because it wasn’t."
"You didn’t think it was worth mentioning, or you didn’t want to mention it?"
"Jesus, Jules" he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Do we really have to do this right now?"
"Yes, we do" she said, her voice low but firm. "Because if I don’t ask, it’s going to fester, and we both know what happens when I let things fester."
Tom shook his head, a frustrated smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "You’re impossible, you know that?"
"Absolutely" Jules replied without missing a beat. "But you still haven’t answered my question."
"I told you — it was a work thing. End of story." His tone had an edge to it now, a subtle warning that Jules would normally heed.
But this wasn’t normal.
She stared at him for a long moment, her glass untouched in her hand. Finally, she leaned back, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Fine. End of story."
Tom relaxed slightly, reaching for his glass.
But in Jules’s mind, the story wasn’t over. Not even close.
The rain whispered against the windows, the city humming like it always did - distant sirens, someone shouting downstairs, a dog barking in the hallway like it paid rent. But inside, it was quiet. Warm.
Jules curled up on the couch, feet tucked beneath her, a mug of tea perched on the armrest, a blanket draped lazily across her legs. She hadn’t changed out of her blouse from earlier; her makeup was slightly smudged, hair half-up, half-falling in that careless way that made her look lethal. Effortlessly lethal.
Across the room, Tom stood by the bookshelves, flipping through a novel he’d only half-finished. The soft glow of the lamp bathed him in gold: grey t-shirt, bare feet, a few tattoos peeking from beneath the sleeves. Hair a little messy, thanks to his own fingers. Relaxed. Completely at ease. And hers. So very clearly hers.
She watched him like a cat watches the sunbeam - unbothered, content, aware. And then, she gave him The Look.
Her gaze drifted from his hands to his jaw, then to his mouth, before circling back. A tilt of the head, the smallest smile. No words. Just an eyebrow raised. The message was clear: You. Now. Bedroom.
Tom paused, caught her eye. "...What?" he asked, already knowing exactly what.
She didn’t blink, didn’t shift. Just licked her bottom lip slowly. "Nothing. You just look like trouble. The good kind."
He laughed under his breath, tossing the book onto the table and crossing the room in four slow steps. He stopped in front of her, his expression teasing. "You sure? You looked so comfortable. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your very serious blanket moment."
She set her mug on the table with a clink, leaned back into the cushions, and tugged him down by the hem of his shirt until their faces were inches apart. "Interrupt me."
He followed her - of course he did. When Jules gave The Look, the only options were compliance or madness. And Tom had chosen madness long ago.
She led the way with that lazy sway in her hips that made him want to both worship and throttle her. She turned with a smirk. "You comin’?"
"You ask that like it’s a question."
The bedroom was dim, rain trailing its soft fingers down the window panes. Even the city seemed to understand it had no business interrupting them now.
Tom closed the door behind them. They stood there, looking at each other.
No rush.
Jules walked toward him like she was stepping out of a dream, no modesty, no pretenses. Just power. And him, utterly caught in it.
As soon as she was close enough, his hands slid beneath her blouse, palms firm against her waist. "You looked at me like you wanted to ruin me" he whispered against her collarbone.
"No. I looked at you like I wanted you to ruin me. Don’t twist the plot."
Tom chuckled low in his throat, but the sound died the moment her hands slid beneath his shirt and she kissed just under his jaw - that one spot that always made him lose composure. He exhaled, long and shaky.
"You’re trouble."
"I know."
Clothes came off with reverence, not haste. There was time. There was always time for this. He kissed her slowly, deeply, like he was reminding her of every reason she ever gave him that look in the first place. She arched under his touch, breath catching, fingers dragging down his spine like she was trying to memorize the shape of him all over again.
And then he paused, leaned over her - eyes heavy but warm - and whispered "Say it."
Jules smirked. But there was no sarcasm in her voice when she answered. Only something softer. Something more exposed.
"I want you."
"No" he murmured, brushing her hair off her cheek. "Say IT."
She hesitated. And then - slowly, like it tasted unfamiliar on her tongue but truer than anything - she whispered: "I love you."
"Good" he breathed, his mouth finding hers again. "Because I plan on ruining you properly."
And then, as always with them - it wasn’t about the chaos or the noise. It was about the rhythm. The trust. The quiet moans, the held eye contact, the way his hand gripped hers tight when she whimpered his name into his neck. He moved like he knew her better than she knew herself. Because he did. And when she fell apart beneath him, gasping, he didn’t say a word. He just held her. Tight. Pressed a kiss to her temple.
And she whispered, almost laughing, voice shaking: "Jesus, Tom."
"What?"
"You’re gonna kill me one day."
"Better men have tried."
The next morning came in through half-open curtains and the gentle hum of a city that did not care they had barely slept. But they cared. They were very aware of how little sleep they got. And how worth it it was.
Jules stirred first, barely. Her hair was a tangled mess on the pillow, mascara ghosted under one eye like she'd survived a glamorous war, and the sheet was sliding dangerously low on her hip. She winced when she stretched, one leg brushing against Tom's.
"Oof. My legs are mad at me."
Tom, eyes still closed, smirked. "Tell them to take it up with management."
"They will. Strongly worded email incoming."
He cracked one eye open. "Subject line: ‘Too Many Orgasms: A Complaint.’"
"You joke," she mumbled, flopping dramatically onto her back "but there was a moment last night I saw God. And then immediately saw blackout stars."
"That was just me turning the light off."
"Romantic and environmentally conscious. You’re a threat."
He reached over and gently pushed her hair back from her face, fingers lingering in the softness behind her ear. There was no tension in him - not even a hint. Just quiet satisfaction and sleepy affection. "You okay?"
She nodded, then looked at him. His morning face was a thing of dangerous beauty - the tousled hair, the scruff, the barely-there smirk that said yeah, I know exactly what I did last night. "A little destroyed, in a good way. I feel like I did a full-body workout."
Tom stretched, one arm over his head. "Because that’s exactly what happened."
"Don’t get cocky."
"Bit late for that, sweetheart."
She groaned but smiled anyway, pulling the blanket over her head. "You’re so smug in the mornings."
"I have reasons."
He peeled the blanket down just enough to kiss her nose. "Tea?"
"God yes. You’re a saint."
"I’m a menace. But a well-caffeinated one."
In the kitchen, he moved like he always did: shirtless, focused, and humming some old song under his breath. Jules watched from the doorway, wrapped in the duvet like a queen who had survived the battlefield and now wanted eggs.
"You know what would be perfect?" she said.
"Let me guess. Sourdough toast, avocado, poached egg, and me feeding it to you in bed like you’re Marie Antoinette."
"Finally, you get me."
He handed her a mug instead, kissed her temple, and whispered "Maybe later. After round two."
She grinned over the rim of her tea. Oh, he was dangerous. "Breakfast first. I need to carb-load. I’ll need the energy if you plan on ruining me again."
"Who said I was planning?"
"Oh no."
"Too late."
Round two was inevitable. You could call it chemistry. You could call it madness. Jules would’ve called it scheduled destruction.
Breakfast had been served with appropriate levels of sarcasm. She sat at the kitchen counter, Tom at the stove flipping eggs like it was some culinary foreplay. She wore his t-shirt, practically swimming in it, and her knickers - black cotton, functional, dangerous - and nothing else. Her legs swung idly as she drank her tea and watched him like a hawk watches a very sexy mouse.
"You know" she said "for someone who could definitely kill me with his bare hands, you’re weirdly good at plating food."
"Years of feeding cast and crew. Also: I am a man of many mysteries."
"You’re a man in grey sweatpants, and frankly, I’m having a hard time pretending I care about the eggs."
He raised an eyebrow and slid her a plate anyway. Sourdough. Avocado. Poached eggs. Stupidly perfect. "Eat" he warned. "Fuel up. You’ll need it."
"For… what exactly?"
"You know what for."
Fifteen minutes later, she dropped her fork and wiped her mouth like she was done with the formalities of civilization. "Okay" she announced. "I’m ready."
"For what?"
"You know what."
He took a sip of coffee. Calm. Controlled. Smug. "Say it."
"You are so annoying."
"Say it."
She stood up, walked over, straddled him in the chair like it was a boardroom negotiation and she was about to close the most indecent deal of his life. "I want you to take me" she said sweetly, hands on his chest "in the bedroom, or right here if you're impatient, and ruin me. Again."
"Better."
They did make it to the bedroom. Barely.
Clothes were discarded with less care this time. The slow-burn reverence of the night before had given way to a hungry kind of familiarity - they knew exactly what they wanted and how to take it.
He pinned her to the bed with the weight of his body, kissing her like he’d missed her for days instead of minutes. Her laugh broke between kisses, breathless, eyes shining.
"You’re…ugh…too good at this."
"You say that like it’s a complaint."
"It is. You’ve set unrealistic expectations. For the male population and my spine."
Tom laughed against her throat, then bit her gently where he knew she was most sensitive - her gasp was immediate.
"I’m flattered."
"You should be arrested."
"That’s a third date conversation."
This time, it was faster. More desperate. Less poetry, more muscle memory.
She clung to him like gravity had become optional, like if she let go, she’d float away. He was still quiet, like always - focused, present - whispering things between her moans: her name, curses, endearments she’d pretend to mock later but secretly hoard.
She, on the other hand, lost the ability to form complete sentences somewhere around minute four.
"Fuck, Tom…oh….Jesus."
"Not him, darling."
"Shut up... don’t stop... don’t stop."
And he didn’t.
Afterwards, they lay tangled in the sheets, both of them sweaty and wrecked and deeply smug about it.
Jules stared at the ceiling.
"I regret nothing."
"You say that every time."
"Because it’s true. And also, because my legs no longer work and I need you to fetch the tea I left in the kitchen."
He laughed, kissed her shoulder, and stood up without a word.
"You’re going to walk naked?"
"Didn’t you say I had unrealistic expectations to live up to?"
She groaned into the pillow. "You’re insufferable."
"You’re insatiable."
"And we work."
"Somehow" he agreed, smirking as he walked out. "Mostly because I bring tea and stamina."
It started around 4 pm. - the tension. They had spent the day pretending to be civilized adults: errands, groceries, a stop at the bookstore where Jules had a full-blown meltdown in the poetry section, then a late lunch at their favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian place where Tom somehow ended up charming the waitress and negotiating with the owner for an extra tiramisu.
All very normal. All very public.
And all layered with a hum of something... else.
By late afternoon, Jules could feel it in her spine. In her belly. Tom had that look. That quiet storm brewing behind his eyes, the one he never announced but always delivered on.
He wasn’t overly handsy. Wasn’t saying much. But every brush of his fingers against her lower back, every half-second longer he held her gaze, every time he stood too close behind her while she reached for something - it was deliberate. And it was working.
By the time they got home, Jules was a live wire. She kicked off her boots, dumped her tote on the floor, and turned to find him watching her from the kitchen with a glass of water in his hand. That was it. That’s all he was doing. But he looked like he wanted to devour her.
"What?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"You look…" He tilted his head. "Amazing."
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse jumped.
"I’ve been amazing all day" she muttered, stalking toward him. "You’ve just been pretending not to notice."
"I noticed" he said softly, putting down the glass. "I just wanted you to suffer a little."
She let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. It was a warning. "You really want to play this game with me?"
He nodded, barely. "I do."
And that’s when round three began - not with a kiss, not with clothes ripped off, but with the slow, delicious unraveling of control between two people who had waited just long enough.
It began in the kitchen. The same kitchen where he’d made her tea that morning. Where she’d threatened to ruin his life with her thighs before breakfast.
Now it was golden hour, and the entire room was dipped in honey, the light catching in her hair and painting her skin like she was some kind of walking, swearing, beautiful disaster. She walked up to him without saying a word. He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just waited.
Their tension had matured over the course of the day - like wine, like revenge. It was no longer playful. It was focused.
She touched his chest lightly, then lower, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt like she owned every inch of him (because she did), and pulled it upward. He lifted his arms silently and let her take it off.
"Finally" she muttered. "I’ve been thinking about this since the parking lot."
"Which part?"
"All of it. This. You. The way you looked at me when I dropped my keys."
"That was an accident, right?"
"Maybe it was."
She pressed her body against his and kissed him like she had all the time in the world and no patience left whatsoever. And he kissed her back like he was trying to memorize every second of it.
He picked her up like she weighed nothing - she let out a surprised yelp and wrapped her legs around him, laughing into his mouth. He walked them to the bedroom with steady confidence, dropping her gently on the bed like he was delivering a precious artifact.
And then... he paused.
Because this time - this round three - wasn’t about speed or urgency. It was about intent. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her. His eyes tracing every line of her body, slow and reverent, like she was something sacred and rare.
Jules swallowed. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because you’re mine."
She blinked. And then smiled - small and secret. "Damn right I am."
He peeled her clothes off with maddening care. Not rushed, not greedy - just precise. Every button, every strap, every inch of skin revealed like he was unwrapping something he’d waited months for.
When she was finally bare beneath him, he hovered over her, kissing her slowly. Her mouth. Her neck. The inside of her wrist.
"I missed this" he whispered. "This version of you."
"Which one?"
"The one that stops pretending she’s not vulnerable."
She closed her eyes. Let him have that one. Let him kiss her chest like it was something worth worshipping, let him explore every inch of her with a quiet, deliberate hunger.
By the time he finally moved inside her, she was already arching, already breathless. Her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth everywhere - jaw, shoulder, collarbone. The rhythm was slow. Unhurried. They didn’t need to prove anything. This was about presence. About knowing each other too well and still finding new ways to say: you ruin me.
At one point he whispered something in French. She didn’t understand it, not really - but she felt it. The way he gasped after, the way his body clenched around her, the way his hand found her cheek.
"Again" she whispered. "Say it again."
"Regarde-moi pendant que je te prends." he breathed.
After, they stayed tangled. Bare legs, damp skin, messy hair, pounding hearts.
"Round three was my favorite" she mumbled against his chest.
"You say that every fucking time."
"Yeah, well, I have a short memory."
"Lucky for me."
She looked up at him, sleepy and smug.
"You gonna get up and make me tea?"
"Absolutely not."
"Then I guess we’ll just have to stay here. Naked. Possibly until morning."
It started the same way most of their adventures did - Jules in the kitchen, overcaffeinated and suspicious, and Tom leaning against a counter, smirking like a man with too many secrets and not enough impulse control.
She was wearing his old Ramones T-shirt and sipping aggressively from a chipped mug that said "World’s Okayest Bitch." Her hair was tied up with a pencil. Her eyebrows were already doing that arched suspicion dance before he even spoke.
Tom didn’t look up from his phone when he said, casually "So. I booked us a trip."
She blinked. Slowly. Like a lizard that just noticed its prey.
"To where?" she asked warily, because "trip" could mean anything from a weekend in Paris to him dragging her to some emotionally haunted moor where someone named Beatrix was buried alive in 1792.
He looked up then, all pleased with himself.
"Edinburgh."
She paused. "Scotland?"
"No" he deadpanned. "The tropical one in the Bahamas."
She threw a dishrag at his head.
He caught it mid-air. Smirked. "Rude. Anyway, yes. Scotland. The one with castles, fog, and emotionally repressed poets. You'll love it. It's like if your Spotify Wrapped was a city."
"I don’t have time for a trip" she muttered, sipping her coffee like it was a weapon.
"You haven’t left this apartment in three days." Tom pointed out. "Your mother texted me, ME, to say you sounded tired in your voice notes and asked if you were depressed or just busy being melancholic again."
Jules groaned. "She did not."
"She did" he said smugly. "And then she asked if I was feeding you enough vegetables."
"Well now I’m definitely not going."
"You’ll pack. And you’ll love it. I want to see you in knee-high boots, stalking around cobblestones like a disgraced duchess who drinks too much absinthe."
She tilted her head. "You’re disgusting."
"I know. Thursday. Be ready."
Edinburgh greeted them with sharp wind and better cheekbones than either of them possessed. The kind of chill that wrapped itself around your bones like a corset and whispered "Welcome to the 1600s, bitch."
The hotel was tucked away on a narrow street that looked like it had seen its fair share of stabbings and whispered confessions. The building had peeling paint, uneven steps, and a brass plaque that looked haunted. Jules loved it immediately.
At the front desk, the receptionist was a redhead with a facial piercing and an accent thicker than cream.
"Room 302" she said brightly. "And just a heads-up, this place used to be a brothel in the 17th century."
Jules turned to Tom, delighted. "I love history."
Tom leaned in and whispered "I love context."
She elbowed him in the ribs.
Their suite looked like a Victorian séance room got drunk and tried its hand at interior design. Velvet curtains, antique lamps, a canopy bed, and - most notably - a window that overlooked an actual graveyard.
Jules squealed. "We are so making out in front of this window."
Tom looked around and declared "This place is going to make you say weird things during sex."
"I already say weird things during sex."
"Fair point."
She threw herself onto the bed, limbs splayed like a Victorian damsel waiting to be ravished. "God, I missed hotels."
He leaned over her, warm and solid. "You missed me in hotels."
She gave him a look. "That too. Barely."
They wandered through wet streets, dodging puddles and smug pigeons. Everything smelled like damp stone and early death, which was apparently the local fragrance. Jules was in a long coat, boots, and sunglasses she absolutely didn’t need, but she claimed it was for the aesthetic.
Tom bought roasted chestnuts from a street vendor and insisted she try one, holding it to her mouth like she was the fussy queen of some forgotten Balkan country. She bit his fingers instead.
They ended up at a café so small it might have been a broom closet with a caffeine addiction. The barista blinked when Jules ordered oat milk.
He said "Right. Are you allergic or just… American?"
She smiled sweetly. "Just pretentious."
Tom laughed so hard he choked on his espresso.
They sat in the fogged-up window, legs tangled under the table. She sipped her coffee and looked out at the city like she was about to write a song about how much she hated her first husband.
He watched her like she was the most interesting thing in the entire country.
She caught him staring. "Don’t get weird."
"You’re just very... cinematic here."
"You say that in every city."
"No, in Paris you were dangerous, in Tokyo you were shiny, in Rome you were unraveling. But here?" He leaned in, kissed her wrist. "You’re haunted."
She rolled her eyes and blushed. "You’re so full of shit."
"And yet, you booked a full moon ghost tour for us tonight, didn’t you?"
She tried not to smile. Failed.
Back at the hotel, the hallway creaked like it was being haunted by its own floorboards. Their room was cold, but it didn’t matter - Tom lit a fire, which crackled like it had been waiting just for them.
Jules kicked off her boots and flopped onto the floor in front of it. Tom joined her, both of them facing the flames like witches waiting for a sign.
Outside, rain tapped against the windows like a polite ghost.
"You happy now?" he asked.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. "This place is deeply unhinged. I love it."
"Tomorrow we’ll go buy books we’ll never read, and maybe get cursed."
She yawned. "Perfect. Maybe a little light grave robbing."
"Very you."
He kissed the top of her head.
And for a long while, they just sat there - two slightly chaotic people in love, wrapped in the quiet hum of an old city and each other’s presence.
They woke up slowly, the way you only do in a city older than your great-great-grandmother’s secrets. The room was cold because of course it was - a haunted ex-brothel turned boutique hotel didn’t believe in central heating. But Tom’s arms were warm and his legs were tangled around hers and honestly, Jules didn’t feel like moving.
"Your feet are frozen" he muttered into her neck, voice thick with sleep.
"I’m dead inside" she replied. "This is just the outside catching up."
After a long shower (where very little actual showering happened), they wandered out into the city again, this time armed with matching knit beanies and a growing caffeine dependency.
They browsed secondhand bookstores with crooked shelves and cranky cats. Tom bought an absurdly expensive edition of Dracula just because Jules liked the font. She bought a poetry book titled "Sad Girls in Cold Places" and declared it her new memoir.
That night, they met up with the ghost tour group in a narrow alley that smelled like rain, history, and maybe unresolved trauma.
Their tour guide was a woman in a top hat and long velvet coat who spoke like she'd dated several vampires and wasn’t over it. Jules was instantly obsessed.
"Welcome" the guide said dramatically "to the darkest corners of Auld Reekie. If you feel a sudden coldness… it might not be the weather."
Jules grinned. "She’s camp. I love her."
Tom whispered "You’re going to be unbearable after this."
She beamed. "Absolutely."
They wandered through underground vaults, old closes, and churchyards that made Jules gasp and clutch Tom’s hand like she was auditioning for a Gothic novel.
At one point, the guide said "This cell was once used to imprison suspected witches."
Jules, deadpan: "Finally, some relatable content."
Tom: "Do I need to be worried?"
Jules: "You should’ve been worried years ago."
Back in their hotel room, Jules immediately turned on the kettle.
"I feel spiritually exfoliated" she announced, pulling her sweater off dramatically.
Tom was lying on the bed, one arm behind his head, watching her like she was his favorite problem. "You were holding my hand so tightly, I think my knuckles cracked."
She made a face. "I wasn’t scared. I was immersed."
"You screamed when that rat ran by."
"I yelped. Like a lady."
She climbed into bed beside him, wrapping herself around his side like a determined cat. "Do you think ghosts follow people home?"
"Only the horny ones" he said, kissing her forehead.
They made love slowly, quietly, like the air was listening. The old bed creaked like it was vaguely offended, but neither of them cared. Tom was his usual focused self - intense, quiet, whispering things in a low voice that made Jules shiver harder than the wind outside.
And Jules - tonight - was soft. Not screaming his name, not dramatic. Just quiet sighs and the occasional breathless "God, I missed you" even though they'd been together all day. She was wrapped up in him, in the strange comfort of candlelight and old walls and something timeless between them.
Afterward, she lay on his chest and traced lazy circles over his ribs.
"We’re going to die one day" she whispered.
He blinked. "Wow, alright. Vibe shift."
"No, but like… we’re going to die and some future ghost tour guide is going to be like, "And in this room, a British actor and his chaotic girlfriend had loud sex and emotionally repressed conversations."
Tom grinned. "That would be an honor, honestly."
She giggled against his skin. "I love you."
"I love you. Even when you flirt with ghosts."
They fell asleep like that, half-laughing, half-exhausted, tangled and warm under heavy blankets in a room that probably did have spirits lingering.
But if there were ghosts, they left them alone. Or maybe they just sat back and watched, thinking:
Ah. Finally. A couple more beautifully messed-up humans in love.
The next morning greeted them with relentless drizzle and a sky the color of disappointment.
Jules stood by the tall hotel window in one of Tom’s long-sleeve shirts, hair messy, mug of tea in hand, and frowned at the street below.
"Edinburgh really is committed to the bit, huh?" she muttered.
Tom, still tangled in the blankets like a sleepy Greek statue, made a vague noise. "What bit?"
"The whole 'mysterious lover who writes poetry about rain and ghosts' aesthetic. I swear the city is flirting with me."
He stretched lazily, his hair a chaos of waves and sleep. "Should I be worried?"
"Only if it starts texting me."
They didn’t have a solid itinerary for the day. Just vague ideas: a museum, a hidden café Jules had seen on TikTok, and something that involved books or at least pretending to read them while making out in a quiet corner.
Tom, naturally, had mapped three different scenic walking routes "just in case."
Jules, naturally, ignored them and led him into a maze of streets where they ended up finding a tiny gallery of watercolors and a man selling gingerbread out of a van with no license plates. She bought a bag. He gave her a look.
"Just... gingerbread from a stranger?"
"He looked like a man with a past" she replied. "I respect that."
The real magic happened late afternoon, when they ducked into the old university library to escape the rain.
It was nearly empty. Just a few scattered students, a librarian who looked like she could hex you if you sneezed too loudly, and rows upon rows of books that smelled like stories and silence.
Jules wandered between the shelves like a cat, running her fingers along old spines, occasionally pulling one down and flipping it open like she might absorb the knowledge through osmosis.
Tom found her sitting on a window bench, curled up with a worn-out copy of Letters to a Young Poet. She looked up at him with that soft, faraway look she got when something had pierced through her usual armor.
"This book is dangerous" she said quietly.
"Why?"
"It makes you think about all the things you’ve wanted to say but never had the nerve to."
He sat beside her. "Anything in particular?"
She hesitated. Looked back down at the book.
"I almost told you something just now."
He leaned in a little. "Tell me."
She shook her head, lips curled in a crooked, sad smile. "Maybe later. Maybe when it’s a little less beautiful in here."
Tom studied her face for a moment, like he was memorizing it. Then, simply: "Alright. But don’t wait too long."
By evening, the fog had rolled in thick and dramatic. Edinburgh was dressed like a film noir and they fit right in - him in a black coat, her wrapped in his scarf, walking close, like maybe the fog was a person trying to listen in.
They found chips - actual chips, greasy and perfect - from a small takeaway near the Grassmarket, and ate them sitting on a bench in silence, watching the mist eat the city.
"You think we’re going to be boring one day?" Jules asked suddenly.
He glanced at her. "Define boring."
"Like… mortgages and meal prep and talking about replacing the bathroom tiles."
He smirked. "I think we already talk about meal prep."
"Yeah but in a sexy way."
He laughed. "We’re not going to be boring, Jules. You’d burn the house down out of spite."
She grinned, cheek resting on his shoulder. "Good. Just checking."
Back at the hotel, she took forever in the bathroom - cleansing rituals, music, hair tied up, everything smelling like lavender. When she came out in one of his shirts and a pair of socks with bats on them, he was already in bed, reading.
She climbed in beside him, quiet.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She nodded, but her fingers curled around his arm.
"I didn’t say the thing today" she murmured into his skin.
"I know" he said. "You didn’t have to."
She kissed his shoulder. "But I might tomorrow."
And outside, the fog stayed wrapped around the city, holding in all the words not yet said.
The fourth day began with the kind of silence that only comes when you both know something is ending - not forever, not dramatically, just… for now.
Jules lay in bed a few minutes longer than usual, watching the light move across the ceiling like it had somewhere better to be. The room smelled like coffee and Tom’s aftershave. He was already dressed, sitting by the window with a notebook on his knee and his glasses sliding down his nose. That writer-at-a-retreat look that made her feel ridiculous things.
"You writing me a sonnet?" she croaked.
He didn’t look up. "Nope. Grocery list."
She snorted, flopped dramatically onto her stomach. "Make sure to add attention and validation. I’m running low."
He stood and walked over, kissed the top of her head. "Added. And two boxes of sarcasm."
They went to breakfast in their matching I bought this in Edinburgh and all I got was existential dread sweatshirts.
On the way, they stopped by a secondhand shop Jules had been eyeing for days - tiny, cramped, filled with old records and stranger things. She beelined for a basket of vintage buttons.
"Are you going to sew now?" Tom asked, watching her sift through them like buried treasure.
"No. But look at this one." She held up a pale lavender button with a tiny engraved flower. "This looks like something an old witch would give you before you found out you were part of a forgotten royal bloodline."
He stared. "That is… wildly specific."
She bought it, of course. Wrapped it in a tissue and put it in her coat pocket like a secret.
Breakfast was warm and chaotic: too many coffees, a plate of eggs she didn’t touch, Tom stealing bites off her toast while pretending to be deeply engrossed in an article about sheep migration patterns. She texted her mom a blurry photo of him with the caption: "Still tolerating him. He’s cute though."
She responded with "Keep him. He looks patient."
They had one last thing to do before leaving: walk up Calton Hill.
The wind at the top had no manners.
It shoved her hair in every direction, tugged at her coat like a bratty toddler, and made her eyes water - which, for the record, was 100% the wind’s fault. Not emotions. Absolutely not.
Tom stood beside her, steady as always. Solid. Calm. Face slightly pink from the cold, eyes trained on the horizon like he was reading some ancient story in the skyline.
Jules exhaled. Loudly. "This wind is definitely trying to kill me. I think it’s personal."
Tom smirked, still watching the city. "You did insult its cheekbones on day one."
"They started it."
A pause. Then softer, her voice shifted.
"You know that thing I didn’t say yesterday?"
Now he turned. No rush, no surprise. Just… open. He always knew when something was coming. She both loved and hated that.
She stuffed her gloved hands deeper into her pockets. "I almost said it in that creepy antique shop. But I panicked and bought a button instead."
He smiled. Just barely.
"And now I’m saying it here" she went on, her voice wobbling like it didn’t get the memo about playing it cool. "Even though I look like a raccoon in a wind tunnel, and my nose is doing something deeply unattractive."
Tom tilted his head. "You still look beautiful."
She gave him a watery laugh. "God, you’re such a sap. I love that about you. It’s disgusting."
She looked down at her boots, then back up at him.
"I love you" she said. "And not in the 'we have fun together and you’re hot and good at folding laundry' way. I love you like… like I’m not afraid to be the worst version of myself with you. And somehow, you still look at me like I’m this… magic thing."
She shook her head, her voice breaking. "I’ve spent my whole life making jokes so no one gets close enough to leave. And you… you’re just here. Not trying to fix me. Not running. Just here. With your ridiculous eyebrows and your quiet hands and your poet heart hidden under all those tattoos."
Tom’s throat worked hard around something he didn’t say.
She whispered "I think you might be my home. And that scares the shit out of me."
A gust of wind pushed against them like it had feelings about that.
Tom didn’t answer right away. He reached up, gently pulled her scarf down just enough to kiss her. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fireworks. It was steady. Tender. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you wanted them to stay forever.
When he pulled back, he was looking at her like he could read every word she never said.
"I’ve loved you" he murmured "since the first time you insulted my shoes."
Jules choked on a laugh and a sob.
"And I will keep loving you" he added "even when you forget how to say it. Even when you’re a storm. Even when you buy cursed buttons and refuse to eat toast crusts."
She kissed him then, hard. Let the wind howl. Let the city watch.
Because for once, Jules wasn’t joking.
They packed up with the practiced rhythm of people who’ve done this before - not just leaving places, but knowing how to take the best parts with them. The hotel room looked too clean, too empty. Jules left behind a scribbled note for housekeeping that read:
"Thanks for the soft towels and existential crisis. 10/10."
At the airport, they sat quietly at the gate, eating pretzels and scrolling through photos. One of them - blurry, wind-swept, and unflattering - made Jules laugh so hard she nearly choked.
"You better not delete that" she warned him.
"Wouldn’t dare."
And as the plane took off, Edinburgh faded beneath them like a fever dream: sharp air, smug pigeons, ghost buttons, secret confessions.
A city they didn’t quite belong to, but which had made space for them anyway - just for a little while.
It had been two weeks since they came back from Edinburgh.
Life had resumed its usual rhythm - a chaotic symphony of work meetings, takeout orders, FaceTime calls with Louis, and Jules pretending she wasn’t still emotionally hungover from telling Tom she loved him on a windy hill while looking like a Victorian chimney sweep.
The button - the cursed-but-make-it-fashion antique oddity - had stayed behind.
Or so she thought.
One lazy Tuesday morning, Jules opened her jewelry drawer to find it sitting on top of her earrings. Just... there. Innocent.
She froze. "Tom?"
From the kitchen: "Yeah?"
"Did you pack the button?"
A beat. "What button?"
"The Scottish button."
"Oh. That button. No, I thought you left it in the hotel. On the nightstand. You said something about letting the spirits have it."
"I did" she called back, staring at it. "I said, and I quote: 'Let the highland goblins keep it.'"
"Well" Tom replied, calm as ever "maybe they mailed it."
She scoffed, picked it up carefully like it might whisper her secrets. "Okay, rude."
The next day, it showed up again - in her purse. She hadn’t even taken that bag to Scotland.
"Tom. It moved again."
He looked up from chopping vegetables. "Where is it now?"
"My Marc Jacobs tote."
He wiped his hands, came over, and squinted at it in her palm. "Maybe it’s like a cat. It just goes where it wants."
"Why would a haunted button follow me across the Atlantic?"
He shrugged. "You gave it meaning. That makes it magic."
She paused. "That’s… actually kind of sweet."
He smiled and kissed her forehead. "You’re welcome. Now put the eldritch fashion relic somewhere safe."
She decided to keep it in her coat pocket, like a little totem. A reminder that vulnerability wasn’t the enemy. That sometimes the weirdest, ugliest little things - a button, a late confession, a guy who didn’t flinch when she was falling apart - could turn out to be… lucky.
Weeks passed.
She stopped finding it in odd places. It just stayed in her pocket like it belonged there. Once, when she was about to have a meltdown over work, she reached for lip balm and her fingers brushed the smooth surface of the button instead. She didn’t cry. She went out for a walk and came back calmer.
One night, Tom found her asleep on the couch with it curled in her palm like a talisman. He didn’t ask. Just kissed her temple and whispered "You’re so weird. I love you."
