Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader,
By early evening, you assumed you were returning to the hotel.
You had reached the pleasant stage of the day where everything felt slightly softened around the edges.
Not drunk.
You had eaten far too much for that, and every tasting had been small enough to feel civilised rather than dangerous. Still, there was a warm looseness in your limbs from the wine, the sun and the long swim in the river.
Your hair had dried imperfectly after being pinned up again in the car. A few strands had escaped around your face. The pale green dress had survived being folded into your bag, changed into beside a river and worn through three vineyards with only minor wrinkling.
Tom sat beside you with one hand loosely around yours.
The other kept moving. Against his knee. Toward his pocket, then away again.
You had noticed the fidgeting at breakfast.
You had noticed it during lunch, when he had rearranged the cutlery twice and nearly put salt into his coffee.
You had noticed it at the private tasting, when he had managed to ask intelligent questions about wine while repeatedly checking that his phone was still inside his jacket.
You had assumed it was simply Tom being Tom.
Too much anticipation.
Too many unknown timings.
A day planned by someone else, even if he had commissioned it himself, was probably enough to leave him quietly convinced that every stage would collapse unless he monitored it personally.
Now, however, the car passed the road leading toward the hotel.
You sat upright.
“We missed the turn.”
Tom looked toward the window.
“No, we didn’t.”
“The hotel is back there.”
“I know.”
The car turned onto another narrow road and began climbing through vineyards.
The sun had lowered behind the hills, washing everything in late golden light. Long shadows stretched between the vines. The leaves flashed silver-green whenever the breeze turned them.
You looked at Tom.
“Where are we going?”
“One more place.”
“Another tasting?”
“No.”
“Dinner?”
He hesitated.
“Eventually.”
You examined his face.
The fidgeting had become worse.
He adjusted the cuff of his shirt.
Then checked one pocket.
Then the other.
Then looked out the window as though hoping you had not noticed any of it.
You had.
“You’re strange.”
“I’m tired.”
“No, you’re not.”
Tom glanced at you.
“I’m fairly sure I know whether I’m tired.”
“Tired Tom goes quiet and looks vaguely betrayed.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Betrayed?”
“Yes. Betrayed.”
Tom laughed and then looked out the window again.
His knee was bouncing.
You put your hand on it.
The movement stopped beneath your palm.
For approximately four seconds.
Then began again.
You looked down.
Then up at him.
“Are you anxious?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
You stared at him.
Tom leaned over and kissed your temple as though affection might sufficiently distract you. And it did. For a while at least before, eventually, after a ten minute drive, the car came to a stop at the edge of a private vineyard.
You looked through the window.
A woman waited beside a narrow path marked by small lanterns. She was dressed simply in cream trousers and a white shirt and greeted Tom by name the moment he stepped out.
You emerged more slowly.
The woman’s smile broadened as she looked at you, then briefly at your left hand.
You noticed that.
You looked at Tom.
Tom was suddenly very interested in thanking the driver.
The woman introduced herself as Amélie and explained that the path was uneven in places.
Tom immediately offered you his arm.
“I can walk.”
“You complained about the last path.”
“Because I wasn’t prepared for it.”
“And now you are?”
“Now I’m seasoned.”
Amélie smiled politely as though she understood none of the argument.
Or all of it.
Tom kept hold of your hand as she led you between the rows of vines.
The leaves glowed around you in the evening light. Small clusters of dark grapes hung beneath them. The air smelled dry and green, with the faint sweetness of fruit and the warm earth beneath your sandals.
The path curved upward.
At the top of the hill stood a small wooden gazebo.
You stopped.
Lanterns hung from its beams, their soft light barely visible against the sunset. Glass jars containing candles lined the edges. Blankets and cushions had been arranged across the grass beneath it, all positioned toward the view.
There were baskets filled with bread, cheeses, figs, peaches, olives, charcuterie and small pastries. A bottle of wine rested in a cooler beside two glasses.
Beyond the gazebo, the vineyard rolled across the hills toward the horizon.
The sky had begun changing from gold to pale pink, the distant hills softened into purple beneath it.
Amélie quietly said she would return later.
You barely heard her.
You turned slowly toward Tom.
He was watching your face rather than the view.
His shoulders remained tense.
“Is it all right?”
You stared at him.
“All right?”
He glanced toward the gazebo.
“The picnic.”
“Tom.”
You looked back at it.
At the lanterns.
At the cushions.
At the entire vineyard apparently emptied and arranged for the two of you.
“This is beautiful.”
Some of the tension left his face.
Not all of it.
“You like it?”
“Of course I like it. It’s possibly the most romantic thing ever.”
You walked beneath the gazebo.
Everything had been arranged with almost suspicious precision.
Each cheese was labelled on a small card.
The fruit had been placed in wooden bowls as though individually assessed for photogenic suitability.
There were proper plates and cutlery in one basket, napkins tied with string and even a small vase of wildflowers that perfectly matched the surrounding landscape.
You turned to Tom.
“How did you organise this?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I didn’t.”
You stared.
“You didn’t?”
“Not personally.”
“Then who did?”
“A company.”
Your mouth opened.
Tom gestured toward the gazebo.
“As you know by now, I am significantly less organised than this presentation suggests.”
You laughed.
“That is painfully true.”
“But I did make some decisions, just to point that out.”
“What decisions?”
“Various ones.”
“Such as?”
He looked toward the picnic.
“The cheese.”
“You chose all this cheese?”
“There were photographs.”
You looked at him.
“You selected cheese from photographs?”
“There were descriptions too.”
“You read cheese descriptions?”
“Some of them.”
“How many did you abandon halfway through?”
Tom ignored that.
You stepped closer and slipped your arms around his waist.
Tom’s hands settled against your back.
His body remained slightly too tense beneath your palms.
“Well, for what it’s worth, you chose beautifully.”
He kissed your forehead.
The kiss lingered.
“Good, because I thought you’d like it.”
You looked around once more.
Then back at him.
“I love it.”
His eyes searched yours as though checking for politeness.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Nothing you would have changed?”
You frowned.
“Why would I change anything?”
A mosquito landed on Tom’s wrist.
He slapped at it and missed.
You laughed.
“Except perhaps the mosquitoes,” he muttered.
“They weren’t part of the package?”
“I do not remember selecting them.”
“You should request a refund.”
“I may.”
You sat together on the blankets.
Tom chose a cushion, changed his mind, chose another and then returned to the first.
You watched the process.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
You handed him a piece of bread before he could change his mind again.
The meal was exactly the kind of food both of you preferred after the previous evening’s culinary performance.
Bread torn by hand.
Soft cheese.
Ripe figs.
Peaches that dripped down your fingers.
Small tomatoes warmed by the day.
Olives.
Cold meats.
Nothing smoked beneath glass or arranged as an abstract interpretation of hunger.
You ate slowly.
The wine was local and red, though Tom again knew more about it than you did.
He explained something about the vineyard’s altitude while you poured two glasses.
His eyes followed the bottle.
You stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re monitoring the quantity.”
“I’m not.”
“You looked directly at my glass.”
“It is in front of me.”
“You watched me pour it.”
“Because you nearly overflowed it.”
You looked at the generous but entirely contained amount.
“It is nowhere near overflowing.”
“We have visited three vineyards.”
“The tastings were tiny.”
“I know.”
“I am not drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Tom reached for the cheese knife.
It slipped from his fingers and landed against the blanket.
He picked it up immediately.
Too immediately.
His hand knocked one of the labelled cards sideways.
He corrected it.
Then corrected another card that had not moved.
You watched him.
“You’re definitely nervous about something.”
“I’m not.”
A frog croaked somewhere nearby.
Tom froze.
His head turned.
“What was that?”
“A frog.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
The frog croaked again.
Closer.
Tom moved one of the cushions beside him.
“It isn’t under there.”
“I wasn’t checking.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I don’t want to sit on it.”
“It probably doesn’t want you sitting on it.”
He looked beneath the edge of the blanket.
You began laughing.
“You are frightened of a frog.”
“I am not frightened.”
“You’re inspecting the picnic for amphibians.”
“I’m trying not to crush it.”
“Very compassionate.”
Tom rearranged the cushion.
Then moved one candle jar slightly to the left.
He stared at it.
Moved it back.
His knee began bouncing again.
His fingers folded and unfolded the corner of a napkin.
You ate a piece of cheese and watched him.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
The answer arrived too quickly.
You waited.
Tom took a drink of wine.
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I always fidget.”
“Not like this.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like you’re trying to reorganise the air.”
Tom placed the napkin down.
Then picked it up again.
“I’m fine.”
He reached toward the glasses.
His hand caught the stem of yours instead of his.
The glass tipped.
Red wine spilled across the front of your pale green dress.
For one second, neither of you moved.
The stain spread over the fabric.
Tom stared at it.
You looked down.
Then at him.
“Oh.”
“Fuck.”
He grabbed several napkins.
“It’s fine.”
“It isn’t fine.”
He pressed the napkins against the dress, blotting too hard and too quickly.
The stain spread farther.
“Tom.”
“It’s red wine.”
“I know what it is.”
“It’s getting worse.”
“Because you’re scrubbing at it.”
He stopped.
You caught his wrist.
His pulse was racing beneath your fingers.
“Breathe.”
“I’ve ruined it.”
You looked down.
The stain was noticeable, but hardly fatal.
“It’s a dress.”
“It is a five-hundred-pound dress.”
You stared at him.
Then your mouth opened.
Then closed again.
You looked at the dress.
“Well, I didn’t pay five hundred pounds for it. So, it’s really just a dress.”
Tom looked genuinely miserable though.
You lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.
“It will come out.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll wear it with a cardigan.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
You touched his face.
His skin was warm from the day.
“Why are you nervous?”
Tom looked at you.
The frog croaked again.
A mosquito landed on the side of his neck.
He slapped at it.
Missed.
Then laughed once, sharply and without amusement.
“Because I wanted this to be perfect.”
You looked around.
The lanterns glowed softly beneath the gazebo.
The vineyard stretched toward the horizon beneath a pink and gold sky.
The picnic was beautiful.
The wine stain was already beginning to dry.
“It is perfect.”
“We have been attacked by mosquitoes.”
“One mosquito.”
“There are several.”
“They’re not organised.”
“There is a frog beneath the furniture.”
You looked around.
“There is no furniture.”
“Exactly. It could be anywhere.”
You began laughing.
Tom looked down.
His knee was still bouncing.
You placed your hand over it again.
This time, the movement stopped.
“Why did it need to be perfect?”
The humour left his face.
He looked at you.
Then toward the sunset.
Then down at your hand resting on his knee.
For a moment, you could almost see his thoughts splintering in several directions.
His lips parted.
Closed.
He touched one pocket.
Then the other.
Then returned to the first.
You stared at him.
“Tom?”
He drew in a long breath.
“I had a plan.”
Your confusion deepened.
“For what?” you asked but, instead of answering you, Tom reached into his pocket.
His hand emerged holding a small dark box.
You stared at it.
Your thoughts simply stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
The breeze continued moving through the vines.
The lanterns swayed slightly above you.
Somewhere beyond the gazebo, insects buzzed in the grass.
But all of it seemed to retreat behind the small box trembling faintly in Tom’s hand.
You looked from the box to his face.
Then back again.
“What is that?”
Tom blinked.
“A box.”
“I can see that.”
“Right.”
“Why do you have a box?”
His expression became almost helpless.
“I’m trying to get there.”
You continued staring.
The possibility arrived slowly.
Then all at once.
Your eyes widened.
Tom shifted onto one knee.
The blanket moved beneath him.
The ground was uneven, and his balance immediately went sideways. One hand shot out to stop him falling into the wine cooler.
You reached for him.
“Careful.”
“I’m fine.”
“You nearly fell over.”
“I am aware.”
The frog croaked again.
Tom closed his eyes.
“I hate that frog.”
A laugh escaped you.
At exactly the same moment, your eyes began filling with tears.
Tom saw them.
Alarm replaced irritation.
“Don’t cry yet.”
You covered your mouth.
“I am trying not to.”
Tom looked down at the box in his hand.
Then at you.
His breathing was visibly unsteady.
“I had a speech.”
You gave a helpless, tearful laugh.
“Of course you did.”
“I wrote it down because I knew this would happen.”
“What would happen?”
He gestured vaguely toward his own head.
“Everything would disappear.”
“Where is it?”
Tom checked his pocket.
Then the other one.
He looked toward the baskets.
Then behind him as though the speech might have fallen onto the blanket and concealed itself beneath the cheese.
“I don’t know.”
You laughed harder.
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“That is perfect.”
“It isn’t. My speech had structure.”
“You don’t need structure.”
“I absolutely need structure.”
“Tom.”
You reached forward and placed your hand against his cheek.
His eyes met yours.
“Forget the speech.”
“I spent three weeks on it.”
“I don’t want the speech.”
His expression fell slightly.
You stroked your thumb across his cheekbone.
“I want you.”
Tom stared at you.
The frantic energy softened.
Not entirely.
His knee remained pressed awkwardly against the uneven ground, and the box was still clutched in his hand as though someone might attempt to take it.
But his attention settled.
On you.
“So just talk to me,” you whispered.
Tom swallowed.
“All right.”
He drew in a breath.
Then another.
“I know this is fast.”
Your mouth trembled.
Tom glanced down briefly at the ring box in his hand.
“We’ve been properly together for less than six months, and you only officially moved in with me three months ago.”
Despite the tears gathering in your eyes, you smiled.
His mouth twisted faintly.
“So yes, doing this now sounds completely insane.”
His gaze lifted to yours.
“And, to tell you the truth, if anyone else told me they were proposing after less than six months, I would tell them not to.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Completely.”
You smiled through the tears.
Tom did too.
Then his eyes dropped to the ring box again, his thumb moving anxiously along its edge.
“But then again, we have never done anything entirely sensible.”
His voice softened.
“We slept together before we even exchanged names, and then we spent almost a year remembering someone we thought we had lost.”
You watched him.
“I did remember you.”
Tom looked up.
“I know you did.”
“You do?”
“You told me yesterday that you remembered my chest hair.”
You laughed wetly.
“Very romantic.”
“It was strangely romantic.”
His expression softened.
“I remembered your hair.”
“The smell.”
“Yes.”
He drew in a slow breath.
“I remembered the way you laughed. The way you spoke too quickly when you were nervous. The look on your face at four o’clock in the morning when you were trying to decide whether I was real or simply a terrible decision.”
“You were both.”
“Probably.”
His gaze moved over you as though he could still see that younger version of you inside the woman before him now.
“I thought about you constantly at first.”
Your breath caught.
“Constantly?”
Tom looked faintly embarrassed by the admission.
“Yes. For months.”
That silenced you.
Tom continued more carefully.
“Eventually I thought about you less because I had to continue functioning. But you never entirely went away.”
His voice lowered.
“Then you appeared on that film, and everything I had put somewhere safe came back at once.”
“You were horrible to me.”
“I was terrified of you.”
You blinked.
“You were?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted you before I knew anything about you.”
The honesty of it struck through you.
“And then I began knowing you, and that was considerably worse.”
Your mouth fell open.
Tom’s eyes widened.
“Not worse.”
“You just said worse.”
“More dangerous.”
“That is not much better.”
“I mean that wanting you stopped being about a one night stand.”
His free hand closed around yours.
“It became about you.”
You stopped breathing properly.
Tom’s thumb moved against your fingers.
“The more I knew, the more impossible it became to imagine walking away.”
His gaze did not leave yours.
“And everything after that should have made us impossible.”
You knew the list before he began saying it.
“James. Layla. The film. The press. My sexuality being turned into a public discussion. Ruth. Ellie. Your parents. My family.”
Your mouth curved faintly.
“And the hamsters.”
Tom nodded gravely.
“The hamsters were significant.”
“Nine babies.”
“Nine unexpected babies.”
“They were very small.”
“They caused an administrative crisis.”
A laugh escaped you.
Tom’s eyes softened.
“In less than six months, we have had more chaos than most couples should reasonably experience in years.”
Tom looked at you with a depth of feeling that made your chest ache.
“But none of it has made me want less of you.”
Your smile disappeared.
“Every terrible thing has made me more certain.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I don’t know whether that is healthy.”
“It probably isn’t.”
“Good.”
“I don’t mean that I love the chaos.”
He shook his head as though correcting the direction of his own thoughts.
“I mean that whenever something has gone wrong, I have looked for you.”
Your throat tightened.
“Every time.”
His fingers curled more firmly around yours.
“And you have been there.”
“Of course I have.”
Tom’s eyes shone.
“I know.”
The words carried more weight than they should have.
“That is part of why I’m sure.”
He paused.
His gaze moved down to your joined hands.
“I have been married before.”
You became very still.
He glanced toward the vineyard, gathering his thoughts.
“And I was almost married again.”
Liliana did not need to be named.
She existed between you without bitterness. A long relationship. A different life. Something significant that had ended before you.
“So I know what it feels like to believe a relationship should last because it already has.”
Tom’s voice was careful now.
Not dismissive.
Not cruel.
“I know what it is to build a life with someone. To love them. To have history with them. To stay because leaving feels like failure, or because everyone expects the next step, or because you cannot distinguish certainty from familiarity anymore.”
You watched him.
“I have loved people before.”
His fingers tightened around yours.
“I am not going to insult you—or them—by pretending I haven’t.”
You nodded.
“I loved Ruth.”
His voice softened with a different kind of affection.
“We made a life. We have Ellie. That was real, even if the marriage didn’t last.”
“I know.”
“And I loved Liliana. I thought we might marry. We nearly did.”
He swallowed.
“But this feels different.”
You searched his face.
“How?”
Tom breathed out slowly.
“Because I don’t feel as though I am trying to become the person you need.”
The answer landed somewhere deep.
His eyes remained fixed on yours.
“I can simply be myself with you.”
Your face began crumpling again.
Tom noticed.
“Please don’t cry more yet. I am trying to maintain a coherent thought.”
You laughed and wiped at your cheeks.
“I can’t help it.”
“Right.”
He looked momentarily toward the gazebo roof, then back at you.
“With you, I don’t have to hide the things that are inconvenient.”
His voice became quieter.
“I don’t have to pretend I’m less anxious. Less distracted. Less difficult.”
“You are difficult.”
“I am aware.”
“Very.”
“Thank you.”
His mouth twitched.
Then he continued.
“I don’t have to pretend I’m not terrified before interviews, even though I have done hundreds of them. I don’t have to hide when I’ve spent three hours worrying about a conversation that lasted thirty seconds.”
“You do that constantly.”
“I know.”
“Then you tell me the conversation in six different versions.”
“Because context changes meaning.”
“It usually doesn’t.”
“That is not the point.”
You smiled.
Tom’s thumb stroked across your fingers.
“You know that I become obsessed with things. That I disappear into work and forget everything around me. That I lose track of time, then become angry at time for passing.”
He smiled softly.
Then his expression grew serious.
“You see all of it.”
His eyes moved over your face.
“The things that irritate people. The things I have been told to correct or manage or make smaller.”
Your heart squeezed.
“I don’t mind them.”
“I know.”
“I love those things.”
Tom’s mouth trembled.
“I know.”
He looked down for a moment.
When he continued, his voice was rougher.
“And there is no judgment with you.”
You reached toward him, but he held your hand as though he needed the contact to continue speaking.
“Not about how my mind works. Not about the mistakes I’ve made. Not about being divorced. Not about Ellie coming first when she needs to.”
“She should.”
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“Not about men.”
The word was quiet.
You felt his hand tense around yours despite everything you had already shared.
“Not about any part of me that other people have treated as something shameful, suspicious or inconvenient.”
Your eyes filled again.
“None of that is shameful.”
“You don’t merely say that.”
Tom looked directly at you.
“You believe it.”
“Of course I do.”
“And I believe you.”
That seemed to be the extraordinary part for him.
Not that you accepted him.
That he trusted the acceptance.
“You don’t love me despite those things.”
His thumb moved over your skin.
“You love me with them.”
Your lower lip trembled.
Tom watched it with concern.
“You’re going to start crying properly again.”
“You’re saying horrible things.”
His face fell.
“Horrible?”
“Romantic things.”
“That is not what horrible means.”
“They’re horrible for my emotional stability.”
Relief flickered over his face.
“Right.”
You pressed his hand to your cheek.
“You never need to be anyone else with me.”
Tom closed his eyes.
For one second, he leaned into your palm.
When he opened them, they were wet.
“That is why this is different.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“I have never felt more myself with anyone.”
You stopped trying to control the tears.
“And I have never been more in love with anyone than I am with you.”
Your breath caught.
Tom held your gaze.
“Never.”
The words settled deep inside you.
“I love you, Y/N.”
His voice cracked.
You raised one hand to your mouth again.
“And I want to spend the rest of it with you.”
You began crying properly now.
Tom adjusted his grip on the box.
His hand was visibly trembling now as he opened it.
He looked directly into your eyes.
“So, will you marry me?”
You stared at him.
Not because you did not know.
You had known from the moment he opened the box.
Perhaps before.
Perhaps at the river when he had said you had him.
But the question was enormous.
It seemed to contain every version of both of you.
The strangers in the hotel room.
The actors glaring at one another across a set.
The frightened man in the kitchen after his private life became public.
The woman standing beside him and refusing to let him be ashamed.
Ellie.
Ruth.
Your parents.
The hamsters.
Every chaotic, difficult and perfect part of the life you had somehow created in less than six months.
Tom’s expression changed.
A thin thread of panic appeared.
“You are taking a very long time.”
You dropped onto your knees in front of him.
“Yes.”
His face transformed.
The tension left it all at once.
You caught his shoulders.
“Yes.”
Your voice broke.
“Yes. Of course I’ll marry you.”
Tom exhaled as though he had been holding his breath for months.
You threw your arms around his neck.
The force knocked him backward onto the blanket.
One cushion rolled away.
The ring box remained miraculously secured in his hand.
You landed half across him, crying and laughing into the side of his neck.
Tom’s arms closed around you.
“Careful.”
“You just asked me to marry you.”
“I know.”
“You actually asked.”
“You said yes.”
“Obviously I said yes.”
“It was not obvious for approximately fifteen seconds.”
You lifted your head.
“Fifteen?”
“At least.”
“You gave me a speech long enough to require an interval.”
“That is irrelevant.”
You kissed him.
Tom responded instantly.
One hand slid into your hair.
The other remained wrapped around the ring box against your back.
The kiss was wet with tears, interrupted by laughter and entirely lacking the polished grace the setting deserved.
It felt more perfect because of that.
His mouth softened against yours.
The frantic nervousness of the day gave way to something deeper and almost disbelieving.
When you pulled away, Tom followed for another brief kiss.
Then another.
His forehead settled against yours.
His eyes remained closed.
“I love you,” you whispered.
His fingers tightened in your hair.
“I love you.”
“I cannot believe you did this.”
“Neither can I.”
You pulled back.
“That isn’t reassuring.”
Tom opened his eyes.
“I mean I cannot believe you said yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re you.”
You frowned.
“Again, that needs work.”
His laugh broke through the emotion.
Then he glanced toward his hand.
“The ring.”
You both looked at the box.
“Right.”
You sat upright.
Tom shifted in front of you and took your left hand.
His fingers were still shaking.
You watched him remove the ring.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’ve been nervous since breakfast.”
“That explains a lot.”
Tom positioned the ring at the tip of your finger.
Then stopped.
“Are you sure?”
You stared at him.
“Tom.”
“I know you said yes.”
“Three times.”
“But this is the last opportunity before—”
“Put the ring on me.”
“Right.”
He slid it carefully onto your finger.
It fit perfectly.
For several seconds, you could only stare.
The gold looked warm against your skin. The centre stone caught the lantern light, flashing whenever your hand moved.
Real.
Completely real.
You turned it slightly.
Then looked at Tom.
“How did you know my size?”
He hesitated.
“Maddy.”
Your mouth fell open.
“Maddy knew?”
“Yes.”
“And she allowed me to call her and ask whether you were breaking up with me?”
Your gaze was fixed on the phone. Had he written the wrong thing? Maybe he wrote something else. Just as you were thinking, a message notification tone interrupted your thoughts.
"Hey, are you there?"
Your hands moved across the keyboard, unsure of what to type. You pressed the send button.
"I am here."
I'm here, but I'm confused. I'm thinking to myself. Why would anyone write something like that? We don't know anything about ourselves except our names.
You thought to yourself. You pushed the thoughts aside. You shook your head. There was no message. He just disappeared....
"I'd like to meet you at the cafe tonight at 8 o'clock."
You stared at the screen. You continued.
"I only know your name so far. I don't trust you."
"Apparently, they've betrayed your trust. Don't worry, I'm not a monster."
You smiled. For some reason, this guy always made you laugh. Unlike your ex-boyfriend.
"Okay. I'll come to the place you mentioned."
"Great. I'll be waiting."
—
While getting ready, you wondered what kind of man he was. Maybe he's older than you. He talks like he is. As you chose your outfit, your eyes fell on the sexy black dress. You muttered to yourself.
"Don't be silly, Y/n, this isn't a date."
As you were muttering to yourself, your phone's notification sound came on. You immediately grabbed the phone. Maybe it was Tom again. But it wasn't Tom. Your best friend....
"Hey girl, you're always here but you never text me. What's up? Is there any news?"
You didn't want to say anything to her yet. What were you going to say? That while texting my ex-boyfriend, I accidentally typed the number wrong and met a complete stranger named Tom?
Don't talk nonsense.
You knew your best friend would be devastated if she found out you were texting your ex. Then the message arrived.
"?"
You sighed deeply and sent her a message.
"I'm sorry. I'm a little confused. I didn't think to write."
"Wait a minute, did you find someone new? Are you talking to him?"
Damn it. Why are best friends like that? They figure things out right away. You hated that. You sighed. You took a deep breath.
"I don't know yet, Mia."
Three dots appeared. They didn't disappear for a while. No, it can't be. She's sending questioning messages.
"Wow, I guess you've found someone new. I'm glad you've gotten over that stupid ex-boyfriend."
"Mia, I broke his heart."
"You did the right thing. He didn't deserve you, Y/n. You know that very well."
"Anyway, we'll talk about it later. I'm going to rest a little."
You said it again. You were going to meet Tom. Everything was ready. Just a simple dress, some makeup, and loose hair. Finished.
You left the house. You put the key in the lock and turned it. The door locked. It was almost 8 o'clock. You were quick. When you arrived at the place Tom mentioned, instead of texting him, you took the easiest route and called him.
You clicked the number. It rings. And it's answered. Seconds tick by.
"Hey, where are you? I came here. I can't find you because I don't know your face."
He giggled behind his phone. You heard this and lashed out angrily.
"Hey! This isn't funny."
"Okay... okay, don't get angry, ma'am. I'm at the table opposite you."
You were surprised he called you "Ma'am"; no man had ever addressed you like that before. Not even your ex-boyfriend.
You walked on. Suddenly, a tall man with blue eyes appeared in front of you, his chest hair visible from the open side of his shirt. You had to force yourself not to bite your lip.
"Tom?"
"Yes. Here I am."
"You look bigger than I thought."
"Old?"
"I didn't say anything like that. You don't look old."
As you sat down at the table, the waiter walked past you. Tom ordered two drinks. Although it was a cafe, it felt more like a bar.
"You're drinking, aren't you?"
"Mmm, I think this will be my first experience."
"I can't believe I went on a date with a baby."
You glared at him angrily. He'd just said one of the things you hated most.
"I'm not a baby. I just haven't preferred it until now."
"Oh, those piercing eyes... I understand."
She chuckled softly, without you noticing. You thought to yourself at that moment.
Why am I here?
Why didn't I delete his number?
While you were thinking, he snapped his fingers. He laughed.
"Where did you zone out?"
"Huh? What? Nothing. Never mind"
He waited for you to sip your drink as he took his. Hesitantly, you took the alcoholic beverage in front of you. You sniffed it and downed it. Your face contorted as if you'd eaten a lemon.
"Wow, this is painful. It burns."
"You should have known. But don't worry, you'll get used to it."
"Oh, I have no such intention."
Tom winced.
"Come on Y/n, don't be a coward."
"Okay fine."
You both sipped your drinks.
"I only know your name, and I'm here having a drink with you."
He giggled. You didn't react. You just watched.
"Do you want to know more about me?"
You rolled your eyes. He chuckled again. He enjoyed annoying you.
"Okay, okay. Let me start before you get any more angry."
He paused for a moment. You touched your hand to your cheek, then leaned against the counter and listened to him.
"My name is Tom. I'm 40 years old. I recently broke up with my fiancée. And I have a daughter. I have friends. And I'm an actor."
You were surprised. He was young, or at least he looked young. You were confused. How could be his daughter?
"Oh my God, wait a minute, I don't have the strength to lift all of this."
As you looked around in amazement, he smiled back at you.
"This is normal."
"I wasn't expecting 40. I certainly wasn't expecting you to have a daughter."
"What were you expecting?"
"I was expecting you to be around 30 years old."
"Everyone who comes into my life has those kinds of expectations."
A smirk appeared at the corners of his lips. He moved even closer to you and looked into your eyes. You were breathless.
"Tell me about yourself. I want to hear it.."
It was pulled away suddenly. You calmed down.
"Hmm, okay. My name is Y/n. I recently broke up with my ex-boyfriend. I have no children. I am 25 years old"
he smiled.
"You don't show 25."
You laughed. Someone who found you young for the first time. A whisper escaped your lips.
"I'm surprised. Why am I still drinking with a man much older than me in a bar? I don't understand."
This time, instead of a smile, laughter came from his lips.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader, Smut
Morning entered the suite gradually.
It did not arrive through an alarm or Tom’s phone vibrating itself across the bedside table. There was no assistant calling to ask where he was, no schedule folded beside a cup of coffee, no driver waiting downstairs while someone hammered on a hotel door.
There was only sunlight.
It slipped through the open terrace doors and spread in long, pale bands across the wooden floor, illuminating the scattered evidence of the previous day.
The empty room-service bowl.
Two champagne glasses, one on the table and one inexplicably beneath the armchair.
Tom’s abandoned shirt hanging from the back of a chair.
One of your sandals near the bathroom and the other halfway beneath the bed.
The bedsheets were twisted around both of you so thoroughly that it was impossible to tell where the fitted sheet ended and the top sheet began.
You woke without immediately knowing why.
For several seconds, you remained suspended between sleep and consciousness, warm and heavy, aware only of the arm secured around your waist and the solid body curved behind yours.
Then Tom shifted.
Not enough to wake you properly.
Just a small movement of his chest against your back and the quiet brush of his nose through your hair.
His breathing was slow and warm against the nape of your neck.
You smiled without opening your eyes.
His arm tightened instinctively.
A kiss landed against your shoulder.
Soft.
Almost absent-minded.
You waited.
Another followed, slightly higher.
Then one against the side of your neck.
“Are you awake?”
His voice was rough with sleep, the words half buried in your hair.
“No.”
“All right.”
Tom became still.
For approximately three seconds.
Then his mouth touched your shoulder again.
You smiled into the pillow.
“You’re very active for someone who accepted that I’m asleep.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are kissing me.”
“That may be happening in your dream.”
“My dreams are usually less persistent.”
His fingers moved against your stomach beneath the sheet.
Not deliberately suggestive.
Simply touching.
Tracing an idle line over your skin as though he had woken needing to reassure himself that you were still there.
You turned slowly within the circle of his arms.
Tom loosened his hold enough to let you move, then immediately drew you close again once you faced him.
His hair had been flattened on one side and was sticking up at the back. Faint creases from the pillow crossed his cheek. His eyes were barely open, soft and unfocused, without the usual alertness or nervous energy that seemed to occupy him even on quiet days.
He looked younger in the morning.
Not twenty-four-young.
But less guarded.
More like the man you had briefly glimpsed in New York, before names and families and careers had made everything complicated.
You lifted one hand and pushed a tiny disordered strand away from his forehead.
Tom watched your face.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“How do you feel?”
You considered the question.
Your body was pleasantly heavy, every muscle aware of what the two of you had spent most of the previous day doing.
“Like I’ve been involved in an accident.”
Concern immediately entered his expression.
“Are you sore?”
“Not in a concerning way.”
“You’d tell me?”
“Yes.”
His hand moved gently along your side.
“We may have been slightly overenthusiastic.”
You stared at him.
“Slightly?”
“Moderately.”
“We had sex for approximately half the day.”
“That is an exaggeration.”
“Two hours when I arrived.”
Tom’s mouth twitched.
“Approximately.”
“Then there was the shower.”
“That barely counts.”
“It counts.”
“It was interrupted.”
“Because we nearly broke the shampoo shelf.”
“It was badly attached.”
“Then after dinner—”
“I remember.”
“Another two hours.”
“You don’t need to provide a statistical analysis.”
“I’m accounting for my physical condition.”
Tom kissed the tip of your nose.
“You also jumped into a pool, tried to drown me and drank most of a bottle of champagne.”
“You threw me into the pool.”
“After significant provocation.”
“I splashed you.”
“Repeatedly.”
“You’re forty years old.”
“Exactly. I’m too old to be attacked in recreational water.”
You laughed quietly.
The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the still room.
Tom smiled, then leaned forward and kissed you.
It was barely more than a brush of his lips against yours.
No urgency.
No immediate attempt to deepen it.
Just a warm, sleepy greeting.
You kissed him again.
This time he lingered.
His palm came up to cup the side of your face, thumb moving slowly along your cheekbone. The kiss remained gentle, almost lazy, but it drew you closer until your body settled fully against his.
His skin was warm from sleep.
Your hand rested on his chest.
The dark hair there was flattened in places and slightly rough beneath your palm.
You traced your fingers through it without thinking.
Tom’s eyes opened enough to watch you.
“Still fascinated?”
“Apparently.”
“I didn’t realise chest hair could sustain this level of interest.”
“It isn’t generic chest hair.”
“No?”
“It’s yours.”
Something in his expression softened.
You lowered your cheek against him.
The hair across his chest brushed your skin, familiar now in a way that still seemed impossible.
You breathed in.
Warm skin.
Soap.
A faint remnant of cologne embedded somewhere at the base of his throat despite the unreasonable number of showers he had taken.
And beneath all of it, simply Tom.
A scent you could not describe to anyone else.
A scent your mind had kept without your permission for almost an entire year.
Tom’s fingers threaded slowly through the ends of your hair.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Smelling me.”
“I am not.”
“Your face is pressed into my chest and you’ve just taken a very deliberate breath.”
You took another.
“Maybe I’m checking whether you still smell the same.”
“And do I?”
You touched the side of his neck.
“Yes. And I love it.”
Tom became still.
The words had escaped naturally, attached to his scent rather than the much larger thing beneath them, but they settled between you with unexpected weight.
His thumb stopped against your hair.
You watched his expression change.
Not dramatically.
Only that faint startled vulnerability he still showed whenever you said something openly affectionate without preparing him first.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That is my answer.”
“You use it constantly. It can’t belong exclusively to you.”
You studied him.
“Say what you’re thinking.”
Tom’s gaze moved over your face.
“I want to hear you say it again.”
Your chest tightened.
You smiled a little.
“I love how you smell.”
You moved closer until your forehead rested against his.
Tom’s hand slid around the back of your neck.
You looked into his eyes.
“And I love you.”
His eyelids lowered briefly.
When they opened again, the softness there made your throat ache.
“I love you too.”
He kissed you.
Slowly.
There was something different in the kiss now.
Not desperation.
Not the frantic hunger of yesterday, when ten days apart had felt like an offence committed against both of you.
This was quieter.
Tom kissed you as though he had all morning to learn you again.
His thumb stroked the skin beneath your ear.
Your fingers drifted through his hair.
The sheets shifted when he moved closer, one leg sliding between yours as his body settled against you.
The intimacy of it was almost overwhelming.
Nothing was hurried.
Nothing needed to be proved.
There was no looming flight, no train to catch, no message saying he had to leave for set before sunrise.
You could stop to kiss his cheek.
To touch the faint lines around his eyes.
To laugh softly when he tried to roll closer and discovered one ankle still trapped in the sheet.
Tom pulled at it with increasing irritation.
“Wait.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m caught.”
You looked down.
The sheet had twisted around his foot and calf.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re meant to be seducing me.”
“I was doing perfectly well until the bedding intervened.”
You pushed yourself up and attempted to free his ankle.
This only pulled the sheet more tightly around your own leg.
Tom looked down.
Then at you.
“Now you’re caught too.”
“You’ve spread it.”
“It’s not contagious.”
“You panicked and kicked.”
“I did not panic.”
“You absolutely panicked.”
You both tried to unwind yourselves at once.
The top sheet came loose from the bottom of the bed with a sudden snap, and one of the pillows tumbled onto the floor.
You stared at it.
Tom stared at you.
Then you began laughing.
He tried to remain serious for a moment.
Failed.
His forehead dropped against your shoulder as laughter moved through him.
“Very romantic,” you whispered.
“It was until you became involved.”
“You were the one caught in the sheet.”
“You made it worse.”
“I tried to rescue you.”
“You’re not trained for rescue work.”
“Neither are you.”
You freed your leg and pushed him onto his back, the tangled sheet sliding away, leaving both of you bare. The morning light spilled across his body—the broad span of his chest, the soft trail of hair leading downward, his cock still relaxed, resting against his thigh, flushed and vulnerable in sleep.
You knelt beside him, admiring him for a lingering moment before reaching out.
Your fingers trailed first over his stomach, tracing the muscles that twitched under your touch. Then lower, through the coarse hair at his groin, until your hand closed around his shaft. He was warm, velvety soft, and you felt him stir instantly—a reflexive pulse against your palm.
You stroked him slowly, deliberately, letting your grip tighten just slightly on the upstroke, your thumb sweeping over the sensitive ridge of his head. His breath caught, a sharp inhale, and his hips gave a small, involuntary push into your hand.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice already rougher.
“Having sex with you, unless you object.”
“Never…”
“Didn’t think so.”
You watched, mesmerized, as he hardened in your grasp. Each stroke coaxed him fuller, thicker, the skin pulling taut over rigid veins.
His cock thickened from the base upward, the head darkening, swelling, until it stood proud against his abdomen—slick with the first glossy bead of pre-cum at the tip. You spread it with your thumb, smearing it over the smooth, heated skin, and he groaned, his hands clutching the sheets.
Two strokes, maybe three, and he was steel wrapped in silk, throbbing with every heartbeat. You stroked him a moment longer, relishing the weight and heat, the way his body arched toward you, silently begging. Then you released him.
You swung your leg over his hips, positioning yourself above him. The tips of your breasts grazed his chest as you leaned forward, bracketing him with your arms.
Reaching between your bodies, you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock once more—this time to guide him, to align him. You notched the swollen head against your entrance, feeling your own wetness coat him, the slick heat of your pussy lips parting around the crown. A tiny jolt of electricity sparked where you touched. You held him there, pressing just slightly, not yet sinking, letting the anticipation coil tight in his eyes and in the trembling of his thighs beneath you.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He did. Eyes hazy with want, lips parted.
And then you sank down.
Inch by agonizing inch, you took him inside. The stretch was exquisite—that initial resistance giving way to a slow, clutching surrender as your body opened to accommodate him.
Your inner walls fluttered, clenching around his girth, and a low moan escaped you both in unison. You paused when he was fully seated, the base of his cock flush against your soaked folds, the tip kissing your deepest place. A shudder rolled through you.
You stayed still for a breath, savouring the fullness, the heat, the steady pulse of him buried so deep. His hands found your hips—not guiding, just anchoring—thumbs stroking circles on your skin.
You pulled back from the kiss you hadn’t realized you’d begun, just enough to see his face. His eyes were still soft with sleep and laughter, but already darkening with wonder.
“I love morning sex,” you murmured, letting the words drop between slow, shallow rocks of your hips.
He groaned, a low rumble in his chest that you felt where your bodies joined.
“You feel so nice inside me,” you breathed, rolling your hips in a fluid circle that drew a shudder from him. “So hard, and thick… so fucking perfect.”
“Fuck,” he hissed, fingers tightening on your flesh.
You started a gentle rhythm—unhurried, soaking in every sensation. The wet sound of your pussy gloving his cock, the drag of his tip against that sweet spot inside, the way his breath hitched when you clenched around him on the downstroke.
You leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and kissed him deeply. Your tongues tangled as your hips rose and fell, a lazy dance that had you both panting into each other’s mouths.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, voice thick, watching your body move above him. The morning light traced the curves of your breasts, the soft give of your stomach, the muscles working in your thighs. He dragged his palms up from your hips, over your ribs, to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until they pebbled. A spark of pleasure shot straight to your clit, and you gasped, grinding down harder.
“Yes,” you urged. “Touch me there.”
One hand slid down, his fingers finding your slick, swollen bud, circling with just the right pressure. Your rhythm faltered, turning desperate, every nerve ending alight. The combined sensation of his cock thrusting up and his fingers working your clit threatened to unravel you.
“I’m so close,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t stop. I want to come on your cock.”
His hips bucked up to meet you, a new urgency in the way he filled you.
“Come for me,” he growled. “Let me feel you.”
You shattered. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, your inner walls clenching and releasing around him in a rhythm so primal it stole your breath. You cried out, a moan swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through it, his hand never leaving your clit until the last tremor passed.
He wasn’t far behind. The way your pussy milked him, the sound of your broken moans, the dreamy, sated look on your face—it was too much.
“Inside you?” he asked, a note of reverence in the question, even now.
“Always,” you breathed.
He thrust up into you once, twice more, then groaned your name as he let go. You felt the first hot pulse of his release, the thick, wet flood of cum deep inside, bathing your inner walls. He throbbed and twitched, his cock jerking with each spurt, and you squeezed, wringing every last drop from him. A low, satisfied sigh escaped you. There was something profoundly intimate about feeling his climax so vividly, the warmth spreading, filling every hollow space.
You held still, both of you trembling in the aftermath, breathing ragged. Slowly, carefully, you eased off him, a shiver running through you as his softening cock slipped free.
Immediately, you felt the trickle. A thick, warm drip of his cum mixed with your own wetness, trailing down your inner thigh.
You looked down and saw the glossy bead, then knelt there on top of him, letting it pool on his belly.
A second, slower stream followed, evidence of how thoroughly he had filled you.
He watched, mesmerized, as his own seed seeped from you, a bead catching on your folds.
“That’s so incredibly hot,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
You smiled lazily.
“I love when you come inside me,” you told him as you reached down, scooped a glob of the mingled fluids from your thigh, and brought your fingers to his lips.
He sucked them clean without hesitation.
Then you collapsed beside him, boneless and satisfied, curling into the hollow of his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling the rumpled sheet over your cooling bodies while you whispered that you loved him again.
Tom’s arms closed tightly around you.
“I know.”
You pulled back enough to glare at him.
“That was an arrogant answer.”
“I meant I know because you’ve told me.”
“You could say it back.”
His gaze softened.
“I love you.”
“Better.”
“Deeply.”
You stopped.
Tom’s fingers moved along the back of your neck.
“More than I know how to explain properly.”
You kissed him before he could become uncomfortable with his own sincerity.
The kiss was slow and warm.
Everything about the morning felt suspended.
Outside, the cicadas had begun again. Somewhere in the gardens below, crockery clinked and a door opened, but the noises belonged to another world.
Inside the suite, there was only Tom’s skin beneath your hands and the aftermath of morning sex.
His mouth against yours.
His quiet laugh when you accidentally caught your hair beneath one elbow and blamed him for it.
The tenderness of his hands.
The faint scent of him that made New York return to you in fragments.
Not painfully now.
That stranger in the hotel room no longer felt like someone you had lost.
He was here.
Older than you had first guessed.
More complicated than anyone could have warned you.
A father.
Distracted.
Anxious.
Sometimes infuriating.
Sometimes so loving that it frightened you.
And entirely yours.
*******
When he eventually drew away, you were both smiling.
Then he looked toward the clock.
The change in him was tiny.
A slight sharpening of attention.
A flicker of calculation.
You noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked at the clock.”
“People look at clocks.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it has personally issued a threat.”
Tom glanced at it again.
“We should get up.”
You tightened your arms around him.
“No.”
“I arranged breakfast.”
“Have it brought here.”
“We’re meant to go downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because that is where breakfast is.”
“This hotel has stairs. That seems deliberately hostile.”
“It is one flight.”
“I am physically compromised.”
“You were unusually energetic six minutes ago.”
“That was before I knew stairs were involved.”
Tom pushed himself upright.
You clung to him.
He attempted to stand.
You wrapped both arms around his waist from behind.
“You’re behaving like a child.”
“I haven’t finished cuddling.”
His expression softened immediately.
Tom stopped trying to escape.
He turned, sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you into his lap.
“Five minutes.”
“Ten.”
“We have plans.”
You lifted your head.
“What plans?”
“Plans.”
“That isn’t information.”
“It is a category of information.”
“Is this about Ellie asking whether you’d done it yet?”
Tom froze.
Completely.
You felt the tension move through his body beneath you.
His eyes met yours.
“You saw that?”
“It appeared on your phone. I didn’t mean to look. It was just there.”
“Right.”
“What did she mean?”
“Nothing.”
“She used three question marks.”
“Ellie frequently uses excessive punctuation.”
Then Tom shifted you carefully off his lap and stood.
“We need to shower.”
You stared up at him.
“That was a very suspicious transition.”
“It was a practical transition.”
“I thought you were going to break up with me.”
He stopped halfway toward the bathroom.
Then turned around slowly.
“What?”
“Only briefly.”
“You thought I brought you to the south of France to end the relationship?”
“It wasn’t my final conclusion.”
“How long did you believe this?”
“Twelve minutes.”
Tom stared.
You lifted one shoulder.
“Possibly fifteen.”
“After we had spent most of the day having sex?”
“That could have been farewell sex.”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“For four hours?”
“You are thorough.”
Tom covered his face with one hand.
You watched his shoulders begin to shake.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
He lowered his hand.
He was definitely laughing.
“It wasn’t funny at the time.”
“I’m sorry.”
He did not sound sorry.
“I messaged Maddy.”
Tom stopped laughing.
“You told Maddy you thought I was ending the relationship?”
“She said you were pathologically committed.”
“That is reassuring.”
Then Tom looked at you with a strange combination of love and exasperation.
“I am not breaking up with you.”
“I know that now.”
“I’m not planning to break up with you.”
“Good.”
“I don’t want to break up with you.”
You smiled.
“Very good.”
He came back to the bed and bent to kiss your forehead.
“You are extraordinary.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not entirely praise.”
“I accepted it as praise.”
Tom straightened.
“Shower.”
***********
You showered together.
It was intended to be efficient.
Tom announced this three times.
The first announcement came when you stepped into the warm water and immediately wrapped your arms around his waist.
“Efficient,” he reminded you.
“I’m washing you.”
“You’re hugging me.”
The second announcement occurred when you put shampoo into his hair and shaped it into a peak.
Tom caught sight of himself in the mirror.
“What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
“My hair is standing vertically.”
“It suits you.”
“We have to leave.”
“You said we had plans, but you refuse to explain them.”
“That does not justify hair vandalism.”
The third announcement happened when Tom spent nearly two minutes searching for the conditioner.
You pointed to the bottle directly beside his hand.
He looked at it.
Then at you.
“That wasn’t there before.”
“It has been there the entire time.”
“I checked.”
“You picked it up and read it.”
“I thought it was body wash.”
“It says conditioner.”
“The bottles are identical.”
“One is white and one is green.”
“The shape is identical.”
You stared at him.
“You are accusing the toiletries of deception.”
“They are badly designed.”
Despite his insistence on speed, the shower took almost twenty minutes.
Not because anything particularly indecent happened.
Mostly because both of you became distracted.
You began telling him about a dream involving Arthur’s wedding and an ostrich.
Tom attempted to follow the chronology, then became preoccupied with the possibility that ostriches might be capable of swimming.
You argued that they probably could not.
He said most birds floated.
You said an ostrich was not most birds.
By the time you left the bathroom, neither of you remembered how the conversation had started.
Tom wrapped a towel around his waist and checked the time.
The nervous edge returned.
You noticed again.
“What am I wearing?”
You stood before the open suitcase in your underwear, surrounded by every item of clothing you had already rejected.
Tom pulled on pale linen trousers.
“Something summery.”
“That does not narrow it down.”
“And comfortable shoes.”
You turned.
“How comfortable?”
“Comfortable.”
“Walking comfortable or standing comfortably while looking attractive comfortable?”
“Walking.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“How far?”
“Not very far.”
“You once called forty minutes not very far.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was uphill.”
“Only part of it.”
You held up a yellow dress.
“This?”
Tom looked at it.
“Maybe.”
“That is not useful.”
You threw it onto the bed and lifted a pale green maxi dress printed with small white flowers.
It had thin straps and a fitted bodice before falling into a loose skirt.
“This?”
Tom’s gaze lingered.
You noticed.
“This one.”
“You’re looking at the neckline again.”
“I’m looking at the entire dress.”
“You began at the neckline.”
“It is physically near your face.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It’s lovely.”
You held it against yourself.
“Too formal?”
“No.”
“Too long?”
“No.”
So you put on the dress.
It fell beautifully, loose and light around your legs.
Tom had stopped fastening his watch.
You caught his reflection in the mirror.
“Still like it?”
“Very much.”
You smiled.
“Shoes?”
“Sandals.”
“Which sandals?”
“The comfortable ones.”
You looked around the room.
“Where are they?”
Tom pointed toward the floor behind you.
You turned.
Both sandals sat neatly beside the wardrobe.
“You moved them.”
“Yes, after tripping over them last night.”
You acknowledged that and then sat to put them on, then immediately stood again.
“Where are my sunglasses?”
Tom looked at the top of your head.
You touched your hair.
“Right.”
*********
Breakfast was served in the courtyard beneath a canopy of grapevines.
The morning sun filtered through the leaves, scattering moving patches of light across the stone floor and white tablecloths.
A fountain trickled in one corner.
Fresh bread, coffee and pastries scented the air.
The two older women from the pool were already seated nearby.
One of them noticed you immediately.
She raised one hand in greeting.
“Good morning.”
Tom stopped beside you.
You smiled brightly.
“Good morning.”
Her companion looked at Tom.
He wore the pale blue linen shirt you had chosen for him, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair had dried into soft waves, still slightly too long from filming.
The woman leaned toward her friend.
She spoke in French.
You understood only fragments.
Very handsome.
Chest hair.\
Tom’s ears turned pink.
You sat at the next table.
“They’re discussing your chest hair.”
“Please do not translate.”
“She says you’re very handsome this morning.”
“I heard that.”
“Do you want me to tell her you’re taken?”
Tom opened the menu.
“I believe your presence communicates that.”
The first woman pointed toward him.
“Very handsome.”
You nodded solemnly.
“I agree.”
She gestured toward you both.
“Still not honeymoon?”
“Still not,” you said.
Her face expressed considerable disappointment.
“Why?”
Tom reached for the coffee pot at exactly the same moment you did.
His hand struck the milk jug.
You caught it before it tipped.
He stared at the jug.
Then at you.
“You all right?” you asked.
“Yes.”
He poured coffee with unnecessary concentration.
The older woman watched the two of you.
“Maybe soon,” she said.
Tom nearly overfilled his cup.
You noticed.
Interesting.
Breakfast unfolded slowly.
There were baskets of pastries, fresh fruit, eggs, cheese and thick slices of bread with local honey.
You ate far more than you expected, still compensating emotionally for the previous evening’s miniature courses.
Tom checked his watch twice.
The first time, you ignored it.
The second time, you kicked him gently beneath the table.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Checking the time.”
“I checked once.”
“Twice.”
“You’re counting?”
“You’re behaving suspiciously.”
Tom tore a croissant in half.
“I arranged a day out.”
You immediately forgot the suspicion.
“What kind of day?”
“You’ll see.”
“Where?”
“Around.”
“That is not a location.”
“France.”
“We’re already in France.”
“Then we’re making excellent progress.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“What do I need?”
“Your swimsuit.”
“I’m wearing a dress.”
“I packed a bag.”
You stared.
“You packed a bag for me?”
“Only the swimming things.”
“Which swimsuit?”
“The black one.”
“The plain black one or the one with the lower back?”
Tom hesitated.
“The lower back.”
You smiled.
“Good choice.”
His attention returned to the table, but he was fidgeting with the paper wrapper from the butter.
Folding it.
Opening it.
Folding it again.
You watched him.
Tom noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at my hands.”
“You’re murdering the butter wrapper.”
He put it down.
“We need to leave in ten minutes.”
“Why?”
“Our driver is coming.”
You stopped chewing.
“Driver?”
“Yes.”
“Why do we have a driver?”
Tom took a drink of coffee.
“Alcohol is involved.”
A grin spread across your face.
“You’ve planned wine.”
“We are surrounded by vineyards.”
“How much wine?”
“A sensible amount.”
“Your idea of sensible or mine?”
“Someone else’s. That seemed safest.”
**********
The car arrived at exactly eleven.
The driver introduced himself as Luc and greeted Tom with enough familiarity to suggest several messages had already passed between them.
You climbed into the back seat and looked at Tom.
He settled beside you.
“You have exchanged emails with this man.”
“I have.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“You hate emails.”
“And yet I can send them.”
Tom looked toward the window.
Luc closed the door.
“Where are we going first?” you asked.
Tom opened his mouth.
Luc answered from the front.
“Lunch at Château Saint-Claire.”
Tom nodded.
“Yes. Lunch.”
You looked at him.
“You don’t know the itinerary.”
“I know the broad structure.”
“Which is?”
“Wine.”
“And?”
“Scenery.”
“And?”
“Swimming at some point.”
“You paid someone to organise this.”
Tom smiled faintly.
“We’ve only just left the hotel.”
The road curved through low hills covered in vineyards and silver-green olive trees.
Stone farmhouses appeared between the vines. Cypress trees rose beside narrow lanes, and the distant mountains softened into blue beneath the bright sky.
You lowered the window slightly.
Warm air moved through the car.
Tom took your hand.
His thumb stroked your knuckles while you watched the countryside pass.
“This is beautiful.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You’re very mysterious today.”
“I planned an outing.”
“You paid for an outing.”
“I participated financially and emotionally.”
You leaned against his shoulder.
“I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“I still think you have no idea where we’re going.”
Tom kissed your hair.
“That is why we have Luc.”
********
The first winery sat on the crest of a green hill overlooking a broad valley.
Its main house was built of pale stone, with faded blue shutters and climbing roses around the doors.
Lunch was arranged on a terrace beneath a canvas awning.
The table overlooked uninterrupted rows of vines.
A chilled bottle of white wine waited in a silver bucket.
The food arrived in large platters rather than conceptual fragments, which immediately improved your opinion of the place.
Fresh oysters with lemon.
Grilled prawns.
Crab dressed with herbs.
Tomatoes in olive oil.
Warm bread.
Soft goat’s cheese.
Peaches, figs and bowls of green salad.
You stared at the table.
“This is already better than dinner.”
Tom sat opposite you.
“Dinner was excellent.”
“Dinner was an educational experience.”
“You said the raviolo changed your life.”
“It did. Then it abandoned me.”
The owner of the vineyard poured the wine and began explaining the soil, the age of the vines and the effect of the sea air.
Tom listened attentively.
He asked several intelligent questions.
You looked at him with increasing suspicion.
When the owner stepped away, you leaned across the table.
“Who are you?”
“What?”
“You know about wine.”
“A little.”
Tom took a prawn.
“I’ve been working in France for ten weeks.”
“You were filming, not attending sommelier school.”
“People drink wine at dinner.”
“I drink wine at dinner. I still describe it as red or white.”
“That’s because you refuse to learn.”
You lifted your glass and sniffed it dramatically.
“I detect notes of grape.”
“There’s citrus.”
You tasted it.
“I detect wine.”
“And salinity.”
You took another sip.
“I lost electrolytes yesterday. This is helpful.”
Tom laughed.
Lunch lasted almost two hours.
You ate until you were no longer compensating for anything.
Tom remembered which seafood you liked best and moved the final prawn onto your plate without comment.
You noticed anyway.
“You wanted that.”
“I’ve had enough.”
“You looked at it twice.”
“I was checking whether you wanted it.”
“You’re lying.”
“Eat the prawn.”
You did.
Halfway through dessert, you became distracted by a bright green beetle crawling along the edge of the table.
You attempted to photograph it.
It moved.
You followed it toward Tom’s glass.
Tom moved the glass away.
“Leave it alone.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It is trying to escape.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re pursuing it with a phone.”
The beetle flew away.
You looked disappointed.
“You scared it.”
“I did nothing.”
“You moved the wine.”
“To stop you dropping a beetle into it.”
“That would have been local wildlife immersion.”
*********
After lunch, Luc drove farther into the hills.
The car stopped beside a narrow stone track.
Tom climbed out first and offered you his hand.
“You said comfortable shoes,” you said as you looked at the uneven path.
“Those are comfortable.”
“They are comfortable on flat ground.”
“It’s a short walk.”
“How short?”
“Five minutes.”
It was seven.
You informed him of this.
Tom said normal people did not time scenic walks.
At the top, the path opened onto an old stone lookout.
The valley stretched beneath you.
Vineyards rolled over the hills in orderly green lines. Farmhouses were scattered among woods and fields. In the distance, the mountains appeared almost transparent beneath the afternoon light.
The wind lifted your skirt around your ankles.
You stepped toward the wall.
“Oh, wow.”
Tom stood beside you.
“Beautiful.”
You turned.
He was looking at you.
You stared.
“That was terrible.”
“What?”
“You were meant to be looking at the view.”
“I was.”
Tom smiled and slipped one arm around your waist.
You rested against him.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.
His chin touched the top of your head.
The wind moved through the grass and carried the dry, green scent of the vines.
You held his hand where it rested against your stomach.
“We should come back here,” you said.
“We’ve only just arrived.”
“I mean another year.”
Tom’s fingers tightened slightly.
“Yes.”
“Maybe when there isn’t a wedding.”
“You mean Arthur’s?”
You turned to look at him.
Tom immediately looked toward the valley.
You narrowed your eyes.
“That was a strange question.”
“You mentioned a wedding.”
“Arthur’s wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Why would you need to clarify?”
Tom pointed toward the wall.
“There’s a lizard.”
You forgot the question instantly.
“Where?”
He showed you a tiny lizard sunning itself between two stones.
You spent the next five minutes trying to take a photograph while Tom quietly laughed behind you.
***********
The second winery was small and cool, its tasting room built beneath the main house in an old stone cellar.
Barrels lined the walls.
The air smelled faintly of wood, earth and wine.
A woman named Camille greeted you and explained that the tasting had been arranged privately.
You looked at Tom.
“Privately?”
He shrugged.
“Apparently.”
Camille guided you through five wines.
Tom again revealed an irritating amount of knowledge.
He asked about fermentation and ageing.
He recognised one of the grape varieties before she named it.
Camille looked impressed.
You looked betrayed.
“You’ve hidden this entire personality.”
Tom lowered his glass.
“Knowing a little about wine is not a personality.”
“It is when you say terroir without laughing.”
Camille smiled.
“He knows more than a little.”
Tom looked pleased with himself.
You lifted your glass.
“This one tastes expensive.”
“It is,” Camille said.
“I knew it.”
Tom looked at you.
“That isn’t a tasting note.”
“It is a financial tasting note.”
At the third winery, the tables were arranged beneath fig trees.
A large orange cat slept along the top of a stone wall.
You became attached to him immediately.
His name was Marcel.
You learned nothing about the final rosé because Marcel rolled onto his back and allowed you to rub his stomach.
*********
Between vineyards, Luc drove you toward a river hidden among trees.
The swimming place was reached by a short path descending between pale rocks.
The water was clear enough to see smooth stones beneath the surface.
A wooden changing screen had been arranged beside a small shelter.
You changed into the black swimsuit Tom had packed.
When you emerged, he was already wearing the floral swimming shorts from the day before.
You stopped.
“You packed those deliberately.”
“They are the only swimming shorts I brought.”
“That was an active choice.”
“They are comfortable.”
“They remain offensive.”
Tom climbed down toward the river.
You followed.
The first touch of water around your feet made you gasp.
“That is freezing.”
Tom tested it with one foot and immediately withdrew.
“We do not have to swim.”
You walked deeper.
“Coward.”
“You just said it was freezing.”
“I’ve adjusted.”
“You are visibly shivering.”
You turned and splashed him.
Tom stared at the water dripping from his shirtless chest.
“Not again.”
You splashed him once more.
Then attempted to escape.
The river was shallow enough that swimming was less effective than expected.
Tom caught you around the waist before you made it three metres.
You shrieked.
“Put me down.”
“You attacked me.”
“I encouraged you.”
“You splashed me in the face.”
“It was motivational.”
Tom turned you in his arms.
The water reached his waist.
You wrapped your legs around him to avoid touching the cold stones beneath your feet.
“You are using me as flotation.”
“You’re warm.”
“I am also freezing.”
You kissed him.
The argument disappeared.
Tom’s hands settled against your back.
The kiss remained soft, interrupted by both of you laughing when the cold water moved higher around his body.
Afterward, you lay together on a broad, sun-warmed rock beside the river.
The heat stored in the pale stone seeped pleasantly into your skin, chasing away the chill of the water. Tom rested on his back with one arm folded beneath his head. His floral swimming shorts were still dripping onto the rock, but he appeared too comfortable to care.
You lay on your stomach beside him, your chin resting on his chest.
His fingers moved idly along your shoulder, tracing small, distracted patterns over your skin. Every so often, his hand wandered into your damp hair, separating the strands and smoothing them back from your face.
The river moved gently behind you.
Water slipped over the stones with a low, constant rush. Somewhere in the trees, insects buzzed, and the sunlight flickered through the leaves whenever the breeze shifted.
Tom looked up at the sky.
“This is perfect.”
You studied his face.
His eyes were almost closed against the light. Without a phone in his hand, a script beside him or someone waiting for him to be somewhere else, he seemed more relaxed than you had seen him in months.
“The offensive swimming shorts?”
His hand stopped against your shoulder.
“The day.”
“Oh.”
“Though the shorts are excellent.”
“They remain a crime.”
Tom smiled faintly.
His fingers resumed their slow movement.
“I mean it.”
You softened.
“So do I.”
His gaze lowered to you.
“I’ve missed having time with you.”
“We always have time together.”
“Not like this.”
You knew what he meant.
The past several weeks had been constructed from calendars, airports and exhausted reunions. Two nights together before one of you had to leave. Dinner interrupted by work calls. Mornings spent counting how many hours remained before the next train or flight.
Even the good moments had usually carried an ending inside them.
This was different.
No one was expecting either of you.
There was nowhere else you needed to be.
You rested your cheek against his chest.
“I missed you too.”
Tom’s palm settled warmly against the back of your neck.
“Ten days was ridiculous.”
You lifted your head.
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t say you were right about it being an eternity.”
“You implied it.”
“I said it was ridiculous.”
“Because it was far too long.”
Tom looked toward the river.
“Yes.”
The quiet admission warmed you more effectively than the stone beneath you.
You smiled and tucked yourself closer against him.
“I love this.”
“The river?”
“All of it.”
You gestured vaguely around you.
“France. The wine. The swimming. You pretending to know what minerality means.”
“I do know what it means.”
“Your horrible shorts.”
“You’ve mentioned them.”
“And having you to myself.”
Tom became still beneath you.
His fingers tightened slightly in your hair.
You looked at him.
“That part most.”
His expression softened.
“You have me.”
The words were simple, but they caught somewhere beneath your ribs.
You traced one finger through the damp hair on his chest.
There was something oddly comforting about getting lost in London.
Not the dramatic kind of lost people talked about in films, where every street held an adventure waiting to happen. No, this was the quieter version. The kind where you stepped off the bus one stop too early, wandered through unfamiliar streets, and let the city decide where you'd end up.
You had been doing that a lot lately. Anything to avoid going straight home.
Your flat wasn't terrible. It was small, a little too cold in the evenings, and the radiator only seemed to work when it felt like it. But it wasn't the apartment you were avoiding.
It was the silence. Silence had a way of making everything louder. The unanswered questions. The memories you kept pretending didn't bother you.
The fact that, after three years together, someone could leave your life and take the feeling of home with them. You told everyone you were doing fine. Eventually, you almost believed it yourself. Almost.
By the time you reached your building, it had started raining. Again.
You laughed under your breath.
"Of course."
Balancing your umbrella with one hand and digging through your bag with the other, you finally found your keys. Your phone slipped from your pocket in the process, landing face-up on the pavement.
"Seriously?"
You picked it up before the rain could do any real damage. One missed call. Two emails.
A message from your best friend asking if you'd eaten anything besides cereal today. You smiled and typed back a quick lie. Yes. You hadn't.
Inside your apartment, you kicked off your shoes and dropped your bag onto the floor. The place felt exactly as you'd left it that morning. Quiet.
You changed into an old hoodie, tied your hair back, and stood in the kitchen, staring blankly into the fridge as if something new might appear if you looked long enough.
Nothing. You settled for instant noodles. Again. Dinner of champions.
With the bowl warming your hands, you curled up on the sofa and unlocked your phone. Your thumb hovered over one contact.
You'd deleted the name weeks ago. The number was still there. You weren't even sure why. Maybe because deleting it completely would make everything feel permanent.
Maybe because some part of you was still waiting for an apology that would never come. You sighed. This is stupid. Before you could think twice, you opened the conversation and typed.
"Can we talk?"
You stared at the words. Your heartbeat sped up. You almost deleted them. Instead…You hit Send. The message disappeared. Your stomach dropped immediately.
No. Something wasn't right. You looked at the number again.
Once. Twice. Then a third time.
One digit. Just…One. Wrong. Digit.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
You clapped a hand over your face, already imagining the poor stranger reading a message that had never been meant for them.
There was no way to take it back. No way to explain before they saw it. Your phone vibrated less than a minute later.
Unknown Number.
"I don't think this was meant for me."
You let out a long breath. At least they were nice about it. Your fingers flew across the keyboard.
"I'm so sorry. I typed the wrong number. Please ignore that."
Three little dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again. You waited. Finally… It's alright. Another pause. Then one more message.
"I hope whoever that was meant for knows they're lucky someone still wants to talk to them."
You read the sentence twice. Then a third time. It was such an odd thing to say. Not flirtatious. Not sarcastic. Just…
Unexpectedly kind.
For the first time all day, you smiled without forcing it Maybe some mistakes weren't as terrible as they felt. You didn't know it yet…But one wrong digit was about to change everything.
You stared at the screen for another few seconds. The conversation should've ended there. You had apologized. They had accepted it.
That was usually how these things went. Yet your fingers refused to lock the phone. Instead, they hovered over the keyboard, almost as if they had a mind of their own.
"Thank you for not being mean about it."
You hit send before you could change your mind. Silence. You sighed, placing your phone beside you on the sofa.
"Congratulations," you muttered to yourself. "You've officially embarrassed yourself in front of a complete stranger."
You reached for the remote, turning on the television just to fill the apartment with some kind of noise. A rerun of an old sitcom flashed across the screen, but you weren't paying attention.
Your eyes drifted back to your phone every few seconds. Nothing. You laughed at yourself.
"You're waiting for a stranger to text you back?"
Pathetic.
Just as you convinced yourself to stop checking—
Your phone buzzed.
You grabbed it a little too quickly.
It's happened to me before.
You blinked.
Really?
Wrong number.
Wrong person.
Wrong conversation.
A smile crept onto your face.
Did it end well?
This time, the reply took longer. Much longer. The little typing bubble appeared… Disappeared… Appeared again. Finally- Not really.
You didn't know why, but those two words carried more weight than they should have.
You imagined the stranger staring at their screen just as you were now, wondering how much was too much to say. It felt oddly… human.
Not polished.
Not rehearsed.
Just honest.
You tucked one leg beneath you and rested your chin against your knee.
"I'm sorry."
The message was delivered. No reply came. One minute. Then two.
You assumed that was it.
Maybe they had gone to sleep. Maybe they had decided they had already shared enough with someone they didn't know.
You set your phone down and walked into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea.
The kettle hummed softly as rain tapped against the windows.
For the first time all evening, your apartment didn't feel quite as empty.
When you returned to the living room with your mug wrapped between both hands, your phone lit up once more.
"Don't be."
Another message followed before you had a chance to answer.
"Some conversations are meant to end."
You read it twice. Then frowned.
"And this one?"
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. You held your breath without realizing it.
"I don't know yet."
You smiled. A small smile.
The kind that arrived unexpectedly and stayed just long enough to make you forget how lonely you'd felt an hour ago.
Outside, London continued as it always did. Cars passed beneath rain-slick streetlights.
A train rumbled somewhere in the distance. Thousands of people were ending their day without ever knowing each other existed.
And somehow…
Out of everyone in the city—
You had texted the one person who chose to answer.
You looked down at the screen one last time. Your fingers rested above the keyboard. There were dozens of things you could've said.
What's your name?
Who are you?
Why did you answer?
Instead, you typed the simplest thing that came to mind.
"Goodnight, stranger."
You smiled at the word before pressing send. A few seconds passed. Then your phone vibrated once more.
"Goodnight."
Another pause. Just when you thought that was all—
One final message appeared.
"…and try not to text any more strangers tomorrow."
A quiet laugh escaped your lips.
"I'll do my best."
You locked your phone, setting it carefully on the coffee table instead of tossing it aside like you usually did.
Outside, the rain had finally begun to ease. The city was settling into the silence that only came after midnight.
You stood by the window for a while, watching blurred headlights disappear into the distance.
It was strange. Hours ago, you'd been convinced this would be another forgettable evening.
Another dinner eaten alone. Another failed attempt to stop thinking about someone who had already moved on.
Instead…
You found yourself thinking about someone whose face you had never seen. Someone whose name you didn't know.
Someone who existed only as an unfamiliar phone number at the top of your screen. You told yourself it was just a coincidence. A simple mistake.
By morning, you'd probably never hear from them again. That was how wrong numbers worked….Right?
Your phone remained silent.
You turned off the lights, slipped beneath the covers, and placed it on your bedside table before closing your eyes. Sleep came easier than it had in months.
Bonus Jake in this one to satisfy @sluttymorpheus... Tom is just too fucking adorable. Jake's not bad either... 😉 The scruff and the jaw and the smile...dreamy...
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader,
For several minutes, the only sound in the room was both of you trying to breathe.
You lay half across Tom, your cheek pressed to the damp warmth of his chest, one leg tangled between his beneath the sheets. The doors to the terrace were still open. Somewhere outside, cicadas screamed from the trees with an enthusiasm that felt almost competitive.
The champagne remained untouched.
So did the fruit.
The elegant arrival Tom had planned had deteriorated into discarded clothes, damp towels, three empty bottles of water and nearly two uninterrupted hours of sex.
You had quite literally jumped one another.
There had been no seduction.
No champagne poured beside the terrace.
No slow tour of the suite.
Tom had barely managed to remove your dress before you were kissing him again, and after that the afternoon had dissolved into skin, laughter, desperate hands and the occasional interrupted sentence that neither of you finished.
You were both behaving like teenagers.
Teenagers with lower-back pain and a preference for expensive hotel bedding, perhaps, but teenagers nonetheless.
You breathed in against his chest.
He smelled like sweat, soap and the faint trace of whatever cologne he had put on that morning. Beneath your cheek, his chest hair was damp and slightly flattened where you had been lying.
You rubbed your face against it without thinking.
Tom’s hand moved slowly along your spine.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
His fingers paused.
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
“I’m dead.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
“I died happily.”
“That’s better.”
You lowered your cheek again, listening to the rapid beat of his heart.
“God, I missed you.”
Tom’s arm tightened around you.
“You saw me ten days ago.”
“That is an extremely long time.”
“It is less than a fortnight.”
“It was ten consecutive days.”
“I understand how days work.”
“You weren’t there for any of them.”
Tom turned his head and kissed the top of your hair.
“We spoke every day.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
“We spoke twice on some days.”
“We did.”
“And we had phone sex.”
Tom’s mouth moved against your hair.
“Several times.”
“That was embarrassing.”
“You didn’t appear embarrassed.”
“I was deeply embarrassed afterward.”
“You called me the following night.”
“I have no self-respect.”
“You also called me from the back of a car.”
You lifted your head.
“That was your fault.”
“I answered the telephone.”
“You answered with that voice.”
“My normal voice?”
“No. Your deeply unnecessary hotel-at-midnight voice.”
Tom laughed softly.
“You called me.”
“I didn’t call you expecting you to sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know exactly what you were doing.”
“I was reading a script.”
“In bed.”
“Yes.”
“Shirtless.”
“You couldn’t see me.”
“I could tell.”
“That is absurd.”
“You sounded shirtless.”
Tom stared at you.
You held his gaze with complete sincerity.
Then his eyes dropped to your mouth.
“So you objected?”
“No. Obviously not.”
He kissed you again, slower now, without the frantic need that had driven the previous two hours. His palm settled against your cheek. Your body was exhausted, pleasantly sore and still unwilling to move away from him.
When the kiss ended, you remained close enough that your noses touched.
Something about the angle of his face, the warmth of his skin and your hand resting in the hair across his chest abruptly pulled another memory forward.
Not France.
New York.
That hotel room.
The first time you had sex.
The scent of unfamiliar sheets and Tom’s skin. The faint roughness of the hair on his chest beneath your fingertips while you tried not to look too directly at him because neither of you had exchanged names.
You frowned.
Tom noticed immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing expression.”
“I was thinking.”
“That explains the concern.”
You poked him weakly in the ribs.
Tom caught your hand.
“What were you thinking about?”
You hesitated.
“New York.”
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just a small softening around his eyes.
“What about it?”
“This.”
You spread your fingers against his chest.
“My chest hair?”
“Yes.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“It is romantic.”
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t know. The sex just now was so…”
You searched for the word and found too many.
Intimate.
Familiar.
Perfect.
Entirely yours.
You looked down at where your hand rested over his heart.
“It was so intimate. So completely different from New York, but it suddenly made me remember that I knew the smell of your skin for almost an entire year before I met you again.”
Tom’s thumb moved over your wrist.
“You remembered how I smelled?”
“Yes. And it stuck to me. In my head.”
You felt faintly ridiculous admitting it.
“Not constantly. That would be concerning. But sometimes it came back to me. Your skin and your cologne and this.”
You gently tugged the hair on his chest.
Tom looked down.
“My chest hair left a lasting impression?”
“It was distinctive.”
“I had no idea.”
“I remembered lying against you that night and remembered the way it felt against my face.”
Tom was quiet for a moment.
Then he touched one loose strand of your hair, winding it carefully around his finger.
“I remembered the scent of your hair.”
You looked at him.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“For an entire year?”
“Occasionally.”
“What did it smell like?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not convincing.”
“It smelled like you.”
“That means nothing.”
“It meant something to me.”
Your face softened despite yourself.
Tom released the strand and brushed your hair back from your forehead.
“I remembered other things too.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“What other things?”
His gaze travelled deliberately down your body before returning to your face.
“Various things.”
“Oh, please.”
“You asked.”
“I was being romantic.”
“So am I.”
“No, you’re looking at my breasts.”
“They formed part of the memory.”
“You are incapable of sincerity for more than nine seconds.”
“I just told you I remembered the scent of your hair for a year.”
“Amongst other things.”
“Very memorable things.”
You attempted to look offended but failed because you were smiling.
Tom’s eyes moved past you toward the mattress.
More specifically, toward the towels he had placed beneath you at some point during the second round.
He raised his eyebrows.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Tom.”
“I was merely reflecting on the accuracy of my memory.”
You followed his gaze.
Then looked back at him.
“Are you referring to the towels?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“Am I wrong?”
“You’re revolting.”
“You asked what else I remembered.”
“I regret it.”
Tom smiled, deeply pleased with himself.
You dropped your head back onto his chest.
For another minute, neither of you moved.
Then Tom sighed.
“We should probably go to the pool while there is still light.”
You made a noise of protest.
“We have a private terrace.”
“We also have a pool.”
“We have a bed.”
“We have used the bed.”
“It continues to exist.”
His hand drifted lazily down your back.
“I booked dinner.”
You opened one eye.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“That is generally when dinner occurs.”
“Where?”
“An estate nearby.”
“Do we have to drive?”
“No. We can walk.”
“How fancy?”
Tom hesitated.
You immediately lifted your head.
“How fancy?”
“I don’t know.”
“You booked it.”
“Your father recommended it.”
You stared at him.
“That was a mistake.”
“Yes, possibly.”
“What do I wear?”
“A dress.”
“What kind of dress?”
“A dinner dress.”
“That does not mean anything.”
“It means more than summer clothes apparently did.”
You rolled away from him and pushed yourself upright.
The room tilted faintly.
You held one hand against your head.
Tom sat up immediately.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. My body has become theoretical.”
“You need water.”
“You need water.”
“I’ve had water.”
“When?”
“While you were lying face-down and refusing to move.”
“I was recovering.”
“You said you were temporarily boneless.”
“I was.”
Tom handed you the remaining bottle from the bedside table.
You drank half of it.
Then you looked toward the bathroom, where your suitcase remained unopened.
“I don’t know where my swimsuit is.”
“You said you packed four.”
“Yes, but I don’t know where.”
**********
You eventually found the swimsuits in a packing cube labelled UNDERWEAR, because halfway through packing you had apparently abandoned the original category system.
Tom changed into a pair of swimming shorts so spectacularly ugly that you stopped applying sunscreen and stared at them.
They were patterned with enormous red and orange tropical flowers.
“What are those?”
“Swim shorts.”
“No.”
He looked down at himself.
“They are.”
“They’re a cry for help.”
“They were a present.”
“From whom?”
“Rob.”
“I am going to have a word with that man.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They look like a sofa in a retirement village.”
Tom adjusted the waistband.
“You’re wearing black.”
“It’s a black swimsuit.”
“It looks like funeral attire.”
“You look like you’re attending a barbecue in 1997.”
Tom picked up the sunscreen.
“Turn around.”
You did, still examining his reflection in the mirror.
“Did you pack those deliberately?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re swim shorts.”
“You own navy ones.”
“Yes. And they’re boring.”
You turned your head.
Tom spread sunscreen across your shoulders.
His palms were warm, his touch gentler than necessary. He moved slowly down your back, making sure every inch not covered by the swimsuit was protected.
You closed your eyes.
“That feels nice.”
Tom kissed the back of your neck.
“We are still going to the pool.”
*********
The main pool was smaller than it had appeared from the terrace.
It was enclosed by olive trees, pale stone walls and several rows of cream sun loungers. Only five other guests were there: an elderly couple beneath an umbrella, two women who appeared to be in their sixties and a man reading a newspaper with the concentration of someone studying for an examination.
You stopped beside Tom.
“We are the youngest people here.”
He surveyed the pool.
“By some distance.”
You looked at the still surface of the pool.
Then at Tom.
He looked back at you.
“No,” he said.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“I recognise that expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one immediately before you behave badly.”
You ran and jumped into the pool.
The splash soaked the newspaper.
Not completely.
But enough.
The man lowered it slowly.
You surfaced with both hands over your mouth.
“Sorry.”
Tom stood at the edge, looking appalled.
“You are twenty-four.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot do that.”
“You’re meant to jump in too.”
“I’m meant to apologise to that man.”
The man shook out the edge of his newspaper.
“It is all right,” he said in English. “Perhaps she has not seen water before.”
One of the older women laughed.
You pointed at Tom.
“He’s frightened.”
Tom removed his sunglasses.
“I’m not frightened.”
“Then get in.”
“I will use the steps.”
“That is frightened behaviour.”
Tom descended by the steps with immense dignity.
You waited until the water reached his waist.
Then splashed him directly in the face.
He stared at you.
You began swimming backward.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did.”
“You can’t prove it.”
Tom lunged.
You shrieked and attempted to escape, but he caught you around the waist before you made it halfway across the pool.
The elderly couple watched with open amusement.
Tom lifted you.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Tom, don’t you dare.”
“You started this.”
“I love you.”
“That is not relevant.”
He threw you into the water.
You came up spluttering.
The couple beneath the umbrella began laughing.
The man with the newspaper left.
You watched him gather his towel and sandals.
“We drove someone away.”
“You drove someone away.”
“You threw me.”
“After you assaulted me.”
“With water.”
“We are in a civilised hotel.”
The two women remained.
One of them, wearing a wide straw hat and enormous sunglasses, leaned toward the other and said something in French.
You did not understand most of it.
You understood adorable.
Tom heard it too.
He looked embarrassed.
You swam closer to him.
“They think you’re adorable.”
“They think you’re twelve.”
The woman lifted her sunglasses.
“Are you on honeymoon?”
You and Tom looked at one another.
“No,” you said.
“Holiday,” Tom added.
“Ah.”
She looked between you both with the knowing expression of someone who had been alive long enough to assume everyone else was moving too slowly.
“You look honeymoon.”
You laughed.
“We’ve only been together for six months.”
“Six months is enough.”
Tom’s arm tightened briefly around your waist beneath the water.
The woman studied him.
Then pointed.
“I know you from somewhere.”
Tom’s face settled into the polite expression he used when recognised in public.
“You’ve been in films.”
She considered him.
“Some.”
He nodded shyly.
“I knew it.”
Her friend leaned forward to examine him.
“What films?”
You named two.
Neither appeared familiar.
You named another while Tom gave you a look.
The second woman nodded enthusiastically.
“Oh! Yes. The champagne. He was very sad.”
Tom blinked.
“Yes.”
“And then you died?”
“I did.”
The woman nodded, satisfied.
“Very sad.”
Then the first woman looked at you.
“I know you too.”
You glanced at Tom.
He appeared to be enjoying this now.
“Also from films.”
“Yes.”
You waited.
The woman narrowed her eyes and then smiled as if she had solved an elaborate puzzle.
“The loop show.”
“Yes.”
Tom inhaled.
You placed one hand against his chest before he could say anything.
The woman looked pleased.
“Very beautiful couple.”
“Thank you.”
“You should marry.”
Tom coughed.
You laughed, assuming the water had gone down the wrong way.
The woman lowered her sunglasses again.
“Six months is enough.”
********
You stayed at the pool until the light turned gold across the stone walls.
By the time you returned to the suite, your hair was wet, Tom’s shoulders were pink despite his relentless sunscreen campaign, and both of you had acquired the exhausted happiness of children after a long day outside.
You showered together.
This was meant to be efficient.
It was not.
Consequently, you had twenty-three minutes to get ready for dinner.
You stood in front of the open suitcase wearing one earring and no dress.
“I have nothing.”
Tom, already dressed in cream trousers and a dark linen shirt, looked at the suitcase overflowing with clothing.
“You have brought thirty-seven things.”
“None of them are right.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. The restaurant.”
“It’s dinner.”
“It’s my father’s restaurant.”
“Your father doesn’t own it.”
“You know what I mean.”
You held up a short floral dress.
“This is too casual.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s wrinkled.”
“Everything you own is wrinkled.”
You threw it onto the bed and lifted out a black maxi dress.
“This?”
“Yes.”
“You answered too quickly.”
“It’s lovely.”
“You didn’t look.”
“I’m looking now.”
Tom turned fully toward you.
You held the dress against your body.
His gaze moved down and back up again.
“That one.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it.”
“You like it because it’s low-cut.”
“That is one component.”
You put it on.
It was simple, long and thin-strapped, fitted closely enough to make Tom briefly lose track of the watch he had been fastening.
You noticed.
“That one?” you asked.
“Yes.”
You twisted your damp hair up and secured it with several pins, then added one more earring and spent three minutes looking for the first earring, which was already in your ear.
Tom eventually took your hands.
“It is on your head.”
“What?”
“The earring.”
You touched your left ear.
“Oh.”
********
The restaurant was located on another estate less than ten minutes away. You walked along a narrow lane bordered by stone walls and lavender.
Tom held your hand.
The last of the sun caught in his hair and across the open collar of his shirt.
You looked at him for too long.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that today.”
“You look nice.”
“So do you.”
“You look holiday nice.”
“What does that mean?”
“Less stressed.”
“I’ve finished the film.”
“You’ve also had two hours of sex and been praised by elderly French women.”
“Both restorative.”
The restaurant occupied a stone courtyard strung with lights. There were white tablecloths, polished glasses and waiters who moved with the solemnity of people carrying state secrets.
You were seated beside a fountain.
A waiter brought champagne.
Then a tiny object on a ceramic spoon.
You examined it.
“What is that?”
Tom leaned closer.
“I don’t know.”
The waiter explained it in French.
You understood tomato, essence and possibly memory.
When he left, you looked at Tom.
“Was part of that a memory of tomato?”
“I believe so.”
You ate it.
It tasted intensely of tomato for approximately half a second.
Then it was gone.
You waited.
“Is there more?”
“That may have been the course.”
“That was one mouthful.”
“It was an amuse-bouche.”
“I was not amused.”
The next course arrived beneath glass domes filled with scented smoke.
The waiter lifted them with ceremonial precision.
A curl of smoke drifted into your face.
You coughed.
Tom studied the plate.
It contained three pieces of something beautiful, glossy and impossibly small.
“Is this dinner?” you whispered.
“It’s the first course.”
“We had the tomato memory.”
“That didn’t count.”
“It counted emotionally.”
The chef sent compliments.
Then another course.
Then another.
Each plate was extraordinary.
Each mouthful tasted intense enough to temporarily alter your understanding of food.
None of it made you less hungry.
At one point, a waiter placed a single raviolo in front of you.
One.
You stared down at it.
Tom looked at his own.
“I’m never allowing your father to organise anything again.”
“I can’t believe you trusted him in the first place.”
“He likes me now.”
“That doesn’t mean that you need to listen to him.”
Tom attempted not to laugh because the waiter was returning.
The final dessert resembled a small golden sphere surrounded by edible flowers and a sauce poured from a silver jug.
You broke the sphere with your spoon.
It collapsed dramatically.
Inside was approximately one teaspoon of mousse.
“Oh, God,” you said.
Tom looked over.
“What?”
“It’s incredible.”
“Yes?”
“So intense.”
You took another tiny bite.
“I still want chips.”
Tom nodded.
“Definitely chips.”
********
You walked back to the hotel slightly drunk, completely enchanted by the food and somehow hungrier than when you had left.
A photograph which had apparently been taken earlier had already appeared online.
Maddy sent it to you with the message:
MADDY: Disgustingly romantic. Dress looks good. His shirt needs ironing.
You showed Tom.
“My shirt is linen.”
“That’s not a defence.”
“It’s meant to crease.”
“Maddy disagrees.”
Back in the suite, Tom ordered room service chips.
The kitchen said they would take thirty minutes.
You both looked at one another.
Thirty minutes was apparently enough time.
The chips arrived forty-five minutes later.
Tom opened the door wearing a hotel robe with his hair disordered and a mark beginning to darken beneath his collar.
The waiter looked at him.
Then at you, visible on the bed beneath the sheet.
Then toward the untouched champagne still sitting beside the terrace doors.
His expression remained professionally blank.
“Your pommes frites, monsieur.”
“Thank you.”
Tom closed the door and carried the tray to the bed.
You sat up.
“Oh, thank God.”
“They brought mayonnaise.”
“I could cry.”
“You nearly did over the raviolo.”
You ate chips in bed while naked beneath hotel sheets.
Tom stole the crispest ones.
You objected every time.
He continued.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten tonight,” you said.
“The chef would be devastated.”
“The chef gave me a spoonful of tomato vapour.”
“It was very good tomato vapour.”
“It didn’t have salt.”
“You’re putting an alarming amount of salt on those.”
“I lost electrolytes.”
By the time the bowl of chips was empty, you had also made a respectable dent in the champagne. The combination of food, alcohol and finally having him entirely to yourself should have made both of you sleepy.
Instead, you ended up having sex again.
For another two hours.
By the end of it, the bed was completely destroyed, the champagne had gone warm and neither of you had enough energy left to pretend this was normal behaviour for two fully grown adults.
Tom went to shower again shortly before midnight.
You remained in bed, exhausted at last, surrounded by abandoned pillows and the remains of the room-service tray.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table.
You ignored it.
Then it buzzed again.
The screen lit.
ELLIE: Have you done it yet???
You frowned.
Done what?
You glanced toward the bathroom.
The shower was running.
Tom had not mentioned anything involving Ellie. He had spoken to her briefly that afternoon before you arrived, but he had gone onto the terrace to take the call because reception inside the suite was poor.
Perhaps it was about a present.
Or the hamsters.
Or something he had promised to order.
The screen darkened.
You reached for your own phone.
Then stopped.
It was none of your business.
You lay back.
Your brain immediately began producing possibilities.
Had he arranged something for Ellie?
Was he meant to tell you something?
Or—
Had he told Ellie he was going to break up with you?
You sat up again.
No.
That was ridiculous.
People did not book seven-day holidays in the south of France to break up with someone.
Except perhaps considerate people.
Tom was considerate.
Painfully considerate.
He might believe a beautiful hotel was a kind place to destroy your life.
No.
He had just spent most of the afternoon having sex with you.
People occasionally had sex before ending relationships.
That happened.
You had seen films.
Perhaps the sex had been farewell sex.
Two hours of farewell sex seemed excessive, but Tom was thorough.
And there had been another round after dinner.
Possibly guilt.
You looked around the room.
The flowers.
The champagne.
The private suite.
Frank had helped organise it.
Perhaps Frank knew.
Perhaps everyone knew.
Perhaps Ellie had asked, Have you done it yet? because Tom had promised to tell you that the relationship could not survive for whatever reason.
Your chest tightened.
You picked up your phone and messaged Maddy.
YOU: Are you awake?
She answered immediately.
MADDY: Unfortunately.
YOU: Hypothetically why would Ellie text Tom asking have you done it yet
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
MADDY: Done what?
YOU: THAT IS THE PROBLEM
MADDY: Why are you reading his messages?
YOU: It came up on screen. I wasn’t snooping. I was lying here peacefully and then it attacked me.
MADDY: Where is Tom?
YOU: Shower.
MADDY: You are in a hotel room in France after having sex all day and you think he is secretly plotting something terrible?
YOU: We didn’t have sex ALL day. We had dinner in between.
MADDY: Thank you for the clarification.
YOU: What if he’s breaking up with me
Maddy called.
You answered immediately and lowered your voice.
“Hello?”
“Are you concussed?”
“No.”
“Have you consumed drugs?”
“Only wine.”
“How much?”
“Not enough for this to be wine.”
Maddy sighed.
“Tom is not taking you on a fancy holiday to break up with you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I have watched that man look at you for six months. He is obsessed with you.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“He tolerates four hamsters, Y/N!”
You went quiet.
Then shook your head.
“But Ellie said—”
“Ellie could be asking whether he ordered hamster bedding.”
“She used three question marks.”
“She is sixteen.”
“She knows how punctuation works.”
“No sixteen-year-old knows how punctuation works.”
The shower stopped.
You looked toward the bathroom.
“I have to go.”
“Do not confront him with whatever narrative your brain has manufactured.”
“I haven’t manufactured a narrative.”
“You have written an entire limited series.”
The bathroom door opened.
Tom emerged with a towel around his waist, rubbing another over his hair.
“I’m going.”
“Sleep,” Maddy ordered. “And stop being deranged.”
You ended the call.
Tom looked at you.
“Who was that?”
“Maddy.”
“At midnight?”
“She was awake.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. She has a life.”
Tom lowered the towel from his hair.
“You look strange.”
“I’m tired.”
“You looked tired before. Now you look alarmed.”
“I’m not alarmed.”
Tom came closer.
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
His phone buzzed again.
You looked at it.
Tom followed your gaze.
Then looked at you.
“Did Ellie call?”
“No.”
“Message?”
“I don’t know.”
You knew you sounded guilty.
Tom picked up his phone.
You watched his face as he read the messages.
For the briefest moment, panic crossed it.
Then vanished.
He typed something quickly.
You tried not to stare.
“What did she want?”
“Nothing important.”
Your stomach dropped.
Nothing important was what people said when something was extremely important.
Tom placed the phone face-down.
Then climbed into bed beside you.
You lay stiffly on your back.
He turned toward you.
“You are definitely being strange.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re lying as though the mattress is under police investigation.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You never sleep on your back.”
“I could start.”
Tom studied you in the dim light.
You tried to appear normal.
This was difficult because you no longer knew what your normal face looked like.
“Are you upset with me?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Was it dinner?”
“No.”
“The swimming shorts?”
“They remain upsetting, but no.”
Tom reached across and touched your cheek.
“Then what is it?”
You nearly asked.
You nearly told him you had seen Ellie’s message and that your brain had spent twelve minutes constructing the collapse of your entire relationship.
But Maddy’s voice remained in your head.
Do not confront him with whatever narrative your brain has manufactured.
You turned toward him instead and pressed yourself against his chest.
Tom responded immediately, wrapping both arms around you.
“I’m just tired,” you said into his skin.
He kissed your forehead.
“All right.”
You held him more tightly than necessary.
Tom’s hand moved slowly up and down your back.
His heart beat steadily beneath your ear.
The same chest.
The same scent.
The same man you had remembered for an entire year without knowing his name.
“You’re sure?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
It was not entirely a lie.
You were tired.
Exhausted, in fact.
Your thoughts continued racing, but your body had reached its limit. The warmth of him gradually softened the panic.
Tom shifted lower beneath the sheets and drew you with him.
Your leg settled over his.
His fingers found the ends of your hair.
“I missed this,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“You taking up the entire bed.”
“I’m on your side because you pulled me here.”
“You would have arrived eventually.”
“Probably.”
His mouth brushed your temple.
You closed your eyes.
After several minutes, Tom’s breathing changed.
Slower.
Deeper.
You thought he had fallen asleep.
Then he said, very softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your eyes opened.
You lifted your head, but his eyes remained closed.
“Did I say you were?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say that?”
Tom’s arm tightened around your waist.
“You’re holding me like I might escape through the wall.”
You stared at him in the darkness.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“That’s all.”
“All right.”
You rested your cheek against his chest again.
Tom did not ask any more questions.
He simply held you until your thoughts finally became too disorganised to sustain themselves and sleep began pulling you under.
On the bedside table, his phone lit once more.
You did not see it.
ELLIE: YOU HAVEN’T HAVE YOU???
Tom opened one eye.
Carefully, without moving you, he reached across and turned the phone face-down again.
Then he looked at the woman asleep against him.
At the loose strands of hair across his chest.
At your hand curled beneath his collarbone.
His free hand moved instinctively toward the bedside drawer.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader, Possible Pregnancy, Birth
This is a bit of a gap filler to assist a jump in time...
The following week, Thomas the hamster became strange again.
At first, it was subtle.
He slept more.
He became unusually possessive of his bedding.
He bit Tom when Tom attempted to remove a piece of cucumber that had been sitting beneath the wheel for two days.
Then his body began to change.
You crouched beside the enclosure one evening, watching him gather shredded paper into an increasingly elaborate mound.
“He still looks so much larger.”
Tom stood behind you with both hands in his pockets.
“Sam overfed him.”
“That was nearly two weeks ago.”
“Hamsters are small. Perhaps the consequences take time.”
Thomas emerged from the bedding.
You both leaned closer.
His middle looked distinctly round.
Not pleasantly well-fed.
Round.
You looked at Tom.
Tom looked at the hamster.
“He is spherical again.”
“He’s also behaving strangely.”
Thomas picked up an entire piece of tissue and dragged it beneath the platform.
Tom frowned.
“Maybe he’s ill.”
That was enough.
You called the veterinary clinic the following morning.
The receptionist asked what kind of animal Thomas was.
You said hamster.
She asked whether it was urgent.
You looked across the kitchen at Thomas, who was sitting in his food bowl with his cheeks full.
“Emotionally, yes.”
The appointment was scheduled for that afternoon.
Tom came with you.
This was not because he believed his presence was medically necessary.
He came, he said, for emotional support.
You did not establish whose emotions required supporting.
Thomas travelled in a small plastic carrier filled with bedding, cucumber and enough seed to survive a minor natural disaster.
Tom carried him through the waiting room.
A golden retriever stared at the carrier.
Tom moved it protectively against his chest.
“Don’t.”
The dog continued staring.
You sat beside Tom.
“I cannot believe we’re at a vet together with a hamster.”
Tom looked down at the carrier.
“I came for emotional support.”
“For me or Thomas?”
“Both of you seem unstable.”
Thomas scratched furiously at one corner of the carrier.
Tom lifted it slightly.
“See?”
The nurse called his name.
“Thomas?”
Both Tom and the hamster responded.
Tom looked up.
The hamster stopped scratching.
You covered your mouth.
The nurse checked the form.
“Thomas the hamster.”
Tom stood.
“That distinction is useful.”
The consultation room contained an examination table, a set of scales and several posters warning pet owners about parasites.
The veterinarian was a woman in her thirties who appeared completely unsurprised by anything.
She opened the carrier and carefully lifted Thomas into her hands.
Thomas immediately tried to climb into the sleeve of her uniform.
“Quite lively,” she said.
“He’s been behaving strangely,” you explained. “Sleeping more, nesting and getting bigger.”
The vet turned Thomas gently.
She examined his stomach.
Then looked at you.
“How long have you had her?”
You paused.
Tom looked at you.
You looked at the vet.
“Him?”
The vet smiled.
“Her.”
Tom leaned closer.
“No. He’s a boy. His name is Thomas.”
The veterinarian adjusted her grip and indicated the relevant anatomical evidence with professional calm.
“She is female.”
You stared.
Tom stared.
Thomas attempted to eat the veterinarian’s watch strap.
You shrugged.
“The pet shop said he was a boy.”
“Pet shops do make mistakes with young hamsters.”
Tom looked personally betrayed.
“So Thomas is a girl?”
“Yes.”
The vet felt carefully along the hamster’s abdomen.
Her expression became thoughtful.
“And there’s something else.”
You and Tom both waited.
“She’s pregnant.”
Silence.
You looked at the veterinarian.
Tom looked at Thomas.
Then back at the veterinarian.
“How can he be pregnant?”
The vet remained patient.
“She.”
“Right. How can she be pregnant?”
The veterinarian returned Thomas to the table.
“Has she had any contact with a male hamster?”
You and Tom looked at one another.
The answer arrived for both of you at once.
“Nibbles,” you said.
Tom shut his eyes.
The supervised bonding sessions.
The sandbox.
The careful introductions.
The way Thomas and Nibbles had chased one another beneath the cardboard tunnel while you and Ellie congratulated yourselves on their developing friendship.
Tom opened his eyes.
“Nibbles is a boy too, apparently.”
The veterinarian gave you both a sympathetic look.
Thomas stared back without remorse.
“So Thomas is a girl and Nibbles is a boy.”
“That would appear likely.”
Tom rubbed one hand over his face.
“We spent weeks helping them bond.”
The vet’s mouth twitched.
“It seems to have worked.”
You laughed.
Tom turned to you.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
“We have facilitated a hamster pregnancy.”
“Accidentally.”
“That does not improve it.”
The veterinarian began explaining the care Thomas would need.
Extra protein.
Minimal disturbance.
A secure nest.
No handling once the babies arrived unless absolutely necessary.
Most importantly, Nibbles needed to remain completely separate.
“How many babies?” Tom asked.
“It varies. Possibly six. Possibly ten or more.”
Tom became still.
“Ten?”
“Sometimes more.”
You looked at him.
“We could have fourteen hamsters.”
“We are not having fourteen hamsters.”
Thomas began washing his face.
Tom pointed at him.
“She has created a housing crisis.”
The vet printed an information sheet.
You paid the bill.
Tom carried Thomas back through the waiting room with the grim concentration of a man transporting unstable explosives.
In the car, neither of you spoke for several seconds.
Then Tom placed the carrier securely between your feet.
“Ellie is going to be thrilled.”
You took out your phone.
“She’s going to be unbearable.”
You called her.
She answered immediately.
“Is Thomas okay?”
You put the phone on speaker.
“Thomas is healthy.”
“Then why did you go to the vet?”
Tom looked at you.
You nodded for him to tell her.
He sighed.
“Thomas is female.”
There was a pause.
“What?”
“The pet shop made a mistake.”
“Thomas is a girl?”
“Yes.”
Ellie absorbed this.
“Okay.”
Tom continued.
“And Nibbles appears to be male.”
Another pause.
A longer one.
Then Ellie screamed.
“IS THOMAS PREGNANT?”
Tom moved the phone farther away.
“Yes.”
Ellie’s scream became laughter.
“Oh my God.”
“This is not a celebration.”
“We’re having babies!”
“The hamsters are having babies.”
“How many?”
“Potentially ten.”
“Can I keep all of them?”
“No.”
“Half?”
“No.”
“Three?”
“We will discuss it.”
You looked at him.
Tom noticed.
“One,” he corrected. “Possibly.”
Ellie was still laughing when the call ended.
Thomas gave birth seven days later.
Hamsters did not believe in allowing adequate preparation time.
You and Tom woke to faint, high-pitched sounds coming from the enclosure.
Tom reached the cage first.
He stopped several feet away, remembering the veterinarian’s warning not to disturb the nest.
You stood behind him.
The mound of bedding moved.
A tiny pink shape became briefly visible before Thomas pulled more paper over it.
Tom stared.
“There are actual babies.”
“That tends to follow pregnancy.”
“They look unfinished.”
“They were born ten minutes ago.”
Tom crouched.
More squeaking came from beneath the bedding.
“How many?”
“We can’t touch them.”
“I know.”
He remained crouched for several minutes, trying to count movements through the bedding.
You made coffee.
When Ellie arrived after school, she abandoned her bag in the hallway and ran into the room.
Tom caught her arm before she reached the enclosure.
“Slowly.”
She lowered her voice immediately.
“Are they here?”
Tom nodded.
Ellie moved closer with extraordinary care.
You had never seen her stand so still.
A small pink body appeared near the edge of the nest.
Ellie gasped.
“They’re disgusting.”
Tom looked at her.
“You said you wanted one.”
“I do. They’re still disgusting.”
There were nine.
Nine tiny, hairless hamsters who gradually developed fur, opened their eyes and transformed the house into the administrative centre of an unexpected breeding programme.
The group chat was renamed again.
RODENT ADMINISTRATION became:
RODENT CRISIS RESPONSE TEAM.
Photographs were circulated.
Friends who had previously shown no interest in hamsters suddenly offered homes.
Sam wanted one because he felt partly responsible.
Rob wanted two until Tom explained that two hamsters could potentially produce another nine.
Maddy said she would take one, then withdrew the offer after learning that hamsters were nocturnal.
Arthur wanted one for the wedding photographs.
Leo told him that was not a valid reason to acquire a pet.
Frank requested the cutest.
Tom accused him of choosing based on aesthetics.
Frank admitted that he was.
By the time the babies were old enough to leave Thomas, each had a home.
Almost.
Ellie kept two.
Tom objected.
Ellie negotiated.
Tom lost.
The house now contained Thomas, Nibbles and two of their offspring, although the young hamsters were separated by sex with a level of scrutiny that bordered on forensic examination.
“We are never trusting a pet shop again,” Tom said.
You watched him compare photographs from a hamster-sexing guide.
“You’ve become very knowledgeable.”
“I’ve been forced into it.”
“You’re a hamster midwife now.”
He looked at you.
“Never say that again.”
********
Over the same weeks, you moved into the house properly.
Not by drifting.
Not by leaving three dresses in the wardrobe and claiming they were temporary.
Properly.
More than the initial three boxes arrived.
Your furniture did not, because most of it was too cheap to justify moving and Tom refused to make room for the unstable bookshelf you had owned since university.
“It leans,” he said.
“It has character.”
“It is a structural threat.”
“You’re elitist about furniture.”
“I’m opposed to being crushed by literature.”
Your books came anyway.
So did your clothes, shoes, makeup, scripts, half-finished notebooks and an alarming number of mugs.
Tom attempted to allocate cupboard space.
You disregarded the allocation.
Within days, your belongings had spread into every room.
A hair tie appeared on the kitchen tap.
Your earrings appeared beside the television.
One of your jumpers migrated into Tom’s car.
He complained.
He also bought additional hangers.
Ellie adapted more easily than either of you.
She was already accustomed to finding you in the kitchen in the morning.
The only difference was that you no longer pretended you were leaving later.
You spent evenings with her and Tom beside the hamster enclosures.
Ellie completed homework.
Tom read scripts.
You attempted to learn lines and became distracted every time one of the babies emerged from the nest.
There were arguments over names.
Ellie wanted dramatic names.
You wanted ridiculous ones.
Tom wanted names that did not require explanation at the vet.
Nobody listened to him.
One became Gertrude.
Another became Toast.
The third, who went to Sam, became Thomas Two despite Tom’s strong objection.
******
Somewhere in the middle of the hamster crisis and the boxes, you attended another official event together.
It was a charity gala at a museum.
Maddy dressed you in something black and silver that appeared elegant until you tried to sit down.
Tom wore a tuxedo.
He looked unfairly good.
You told him so in the car.
He adjusted his cuff.
“You’ve seen me in a tuxedo before.”
“I remain capable of appreciating it.”
“You’ve also spent the week watching me clean hamster cages.”
“You contain multitudes.”
The photographs from that evening spread quickly.
There were pictures of Tom’s hand at your waist.
One of you laughing against his shoulder.
Another of him looking down at you while you spoke to someone outside the frame.
The coverage was softer now.
Less scandal.
Less emphasis on the age difference.
Articles called you a modern couple.
They described Tom as openly bisexual and you as supportive, although you disliked the suggestion that loving him required public commendation.
Some referred to your own bisexuality too.
Most noted that neither of you appeared particularly interested in defending or explaining yourselves anymore.
You attended the event.
You held hands.
You went home.
The world survived.
*******
Then Tom left for France.
You knew the date was coming.
You had discussed it for weeks.
You had looked at calendars, call sheets and travel times.
None of that prepared you for the morning his suitcases stood beside the door.
He walked through the house checking things he had already checked.
Passport.
Script.
Chargers.
Medication.
Two books.
The tea you had bought him at the market.
You followed him from room to room.
“You know France has shops.”
“Not for this.”
“You could leave it here.”
Tom looked at you.
“You bought it for me.”
That made the departure worse.
Ellie came over that day before school to say goodbye.
She hugged him tightly, then reminded him to call every night and not only send messages.
Tom promised.
He kissed her hair.
When she left, the house became too quiet.
Tom returned to the bedroom.
You sat on the edge of the bed beside his open suitcase.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be gone for weeks.”
“Not continuously.”
“It feels continuous.”
He stood between your knees and placed both hands against your face.
“I’ll be home whenever the schedule allows.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“And you’ll come to France.”
“Constantly.”
“And I’ll come back here.”
“Constantly.”
“We will see each other.”
You nodded.
Then shook your head.
“Not enough.”
Tom bent and kissed you.
It was slow.
Careful.
The kind of kiss that became painful because it was already a goodbye.
“No,” he said against your mouth. “Not enough.”
You prepared for your own film while he was away.
Costume fittings.
Dialect sessions.
Historical research.
Hours spent at the kitchen table with notes spread in every direction.
Maddy came over frequently because she said the house felt unnaturally quiet without Tom complaining from another room.
She brought food.
She brought wine.
She also reorganised your wardrobe without permission.
“You’re keeping three empty boxes in here.”
“They might be useful.”
“For what?”
“Future storage.”
“They are currently occupying the storage.”
Ellie stayed over too.
Sometimes when Tom was home.
Sometimes when he was not.
The first time Ruth asked whether Ellie could stay with you while Tom remained in France, her voice had been cautious.
“She says she’d rather stay at the house, because we had a fight again. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course.”
There was a pause.
“You don’t mind?”
“She lives here too.”
Another pause.
Then Ruth said,
“Thank you.”
It gradually became normal.
Ellie stayed with you.
Ruth had evenings to herself.
You made dinner badly.
Ellie corrected your cooking.
You both called Tom from the sofa and complained about him jointly.
Ruth softened toward you through the arrangement.
Not dramatically.
She did not become your friend.
But she stopped treating you as a temporary disruption.
She saw that Ellie was comfortable with you.
She saw that you did not attempt to replace her.
You reminded Ellie to call her mother.
You did not interfere with rules you had not made.
When Ruth came to collect her, she sometimes stayed for tea.
The conversations remained careful.
But they became conversations.
Jess never contacted you again.
Neither did James.
You saw photographs of James with his new girlfriend.
You hoped, sincerely, that he treated her better.
A newspaper quoted him once after a journalist asked about your relationship with Tom.
James said he found the entire public spectacle appalling.
The comment did not receive the response he appeared to expect.
Several outlets pointed out that he had previously been accused of controlling and violent behaviour toward you.
Others questioned why your private life remained any concern of his.
He did not make another statement.
You worked small roles between preparations for the larger film.
A guest appearance in a television drama.
Two days on an independent film for a director you liked.
Voice work for an animated project that required you to pretend to be a fox.
Tom called while you were recording.
“What are you doing?”
“Being a fox.”
“Professionally?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I was concerned.”
The distance became structured.
That helped.
You knew when he would call.
He knew which nights you had fittings.
You shared calendars.
You planned trains and flights with almost military precision.
At least once a fortnight, you found two or three nights together.
Sometimes Tom returned to London.
Sometimes you flew to France.
Once you reached his hotel after midnight and found him asleep across the bed with the script still open against his chest.
You removed it.
He woke immediately.
For one confused second, he stared.
Then he pulled you against him so quickly you nearly fell.
“You’re here.”
“I said I was coming.”
He held you for a long time.
No performance.
No jokes.
Just his face pressed against your hair and his arms tight around you.
You missed him terribly.
The missing never became smaller.
You simply became better at carrying it.
One weekend, filming brought Tom to Paris.
Frank was there too for an exhibition.
The three of you met for dinner.
The dynamic returned more easily than any of you had expected.
Frank teased Tom about France improving his posture.
Tom told him to go to hell.
You drank too much wine.
The evening ended at Frank’s hotel room.
What happened there remained private.
Warm, consensual and very much wanted.
The following morning, the group chat received another new name.
PARIS CULTURAL EXCHANGE.
Tom threatened to delete it.
He did not.
********
Meanwhile, Arthur and Leo’s wedding approached with increasing speed.
There were venue calls.
Seating plans.
Flowers.
Suit fittings.
Arguments about music.
Arthur changed his mind about the first dance three times.
Leo pretended not to care, then produced a colour-coded spreadsheet.
Your mother became consumed by wedding logistics.
For the first time in months, Tom was not her primary concern.
She worried about weather.
Guest transport.
Whether you would wear the dress she preferred.
Whether your father would give a speech that lasted longer than twelve minutes.
Tom benefited greatly from the distraction.
Your mother remained wary of him.
She still disliked the smoking.
She still believed the relationship had moved too fast.
She continued to avoid acknowledging his bisexuality unless forced.
But she no longer treated him as an imminent disaster.
Your father went further.
During an interview about the film, the journalist inevitably asked what it had been like to discover that his daughter was dating the lead actor.
Your father paused.
Then said,
“Obviously, it was a bit of a shock. No father expects to learn that his daughter is dating the lead of his film while the film is still being made.”
The interviewer laughed.
Your father continued.
“But Tom is a decent man. He is serious about his work, serious about his daughter and, as far as I can see, serious about mine. They’re happy. So I’m happy for them.”
You watched the clip twice.
Then sent it to Tom.
He replied immediately.
TOM: Was he being held hostage?
YOU: He loves you.
TOM: He tolerated me during chess.
YOU: He called you decent.
TOM: This is concerning.
You called your father.
“I saw the interview.”
“Did you?”
“You said nice things about Tom.”
“I answered a question.”
“You endorsed him.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“You practically gave him a review.”
Your father sighed.
“He is a decent man.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
“He still needs a better agent.”
*********
In addition to this, during the first six weeks while Tom was away filming, Denise’s company collapsed completely.
Administration became liquidation.
Your father lost a substantial amount of money.
He did not invest again.
Denise did not sell anything to the press.
At least, nothing you could identify. At least not now.
She became distant from your parents after the business failed.
Messages went unanswered.
Invitations were declined.
Your mother felt guilty.
Your father became defensive whenever the subject arose.
Arthur remained convinced that jealousy and financial panic had driven much of Denise’s behaviour at the country house.
You were simply relieved she had not acted on it.
Over those weeks it also became evident that Layla complied with every condition imposed on her.
She stayed away.
No new photographs appeared.
No messages arrived.
Daniel continued monitoring the situation for several months before gradually reducing his involvement.
For the first time since the relationship became public, your life began to feel almost normal.
Public outings still attracted attention.
Photographs of you and Tom appeared when you left restaurants, airports and theatres.
People commented on your clothes.
His hair.
The fact that you held hands.
The fact that you sometimes did not.
But the tone changed.
Your relationship stopped being treated as a temporary scandal.
The age difference became background information rather than the headline.
Tom’s bisexuality remained part of public discussion, but less frequently as a revelation and more often as an accepted fact.
Articles called you unconventional.
Modern.
A bisexual couple without jealousy.
You disliked some of the assumptions embedded in that.
The public had no idea what boundaries you had, what you permitted or what you kept entirely private.
But the general conclusion was accurate.
You loved one another.
Clearly.
Repeatedly.
Across countries, film schedules, families, hamsters and every badly phrased interview.
Despite seeing each other less, the relationship became more structured.
More deliberate.
You no longer relied on simply appearing at Tom’s house and staying.
You planned.
You communicated.
You knew where you would be the following month.
You discussed difficult things before they became emergencies.
Distance forced discipline onto two people who were not naturally disciplined.
Tom called at the same time every night unless he was filming.
You sent him photographs of Ellie, the hamsters and the terrible dinners you attempted.
He sent photographs from set.
Mostly landscapes.
Occasionally himself in costume.
Once, a photograph of him covered in artificial blood.
YOU: Are you dead?
TOM: Only contractually.
You also had phone sex on more occasions than either of you would ever admit publicly.
It was ridiculous.
Both of you were grown adults with demanding careers, complicated families and carefully coordinated schedules, yet there were nights when the entire conversation deteriorated within minutes because Tom’s voice dropped slightly or you mentioned what you were wearing.
Sometimes it happened deliberately.
Other times, one of you would call after midnight intending only to say goodnight, and twenty minutes later Tom would be whispering that the walls in his hotel were thin while making no actual effort to remain quiet.
You were both needy.
Embarrassingly so.
The calls never made the distance disappear, but they softened the worst edges of it.
They reminded you that beneath the schedules, interviews and carefully planned train journeys, you still wanted each other with the same intensity.
Possibly more.
After ten weeks of almost constant work, Tom finally wrapped filming in France.
You had seven entire days together before Arthur and Leo’s wedding.
No fittings.
No call sheets.
No meetings.
No pretending that two hurried nights between flights counted as adequate time together.
Your first proper holiday.
You had been together for less than six months.
In that time, there had been a violent former fiancé, a stalker, several public scandals, Tom’s sexuality being exposed, multiple family confrontations, two threesomes, an accidental hamster pregnancy, unexpected cohabitation and enough press coverage to document the entire collapse of your privacy.
A holiday felt almost indecently normal.
You had planned it well.
Or, more accurately, Tom had planned it well.
He refused to tell you where you were staying.
You knew only that you were meeting in the south of France on Thursday and that somebody would collect you from the airport.
“What do I pack?” you had asked.
“Clothes.”
“What kind?”
“Summer clothes.”
“Elegant summer clothes or normal summer clothes?”
“Both.”
“Swimming things?”
“Yes.”
“Walking shoes?”
“Perhaps.”
“Formal shoes?”
“Possibly.”
You had stared at him through the screen.
“This is not useful.”
“You usually bring everything you own regardless.”
He was not wrong.
Tom arrived two hours before you.
By the time your car reached the hotel, he had checked in, inspected the room, spoken to reception twice and rearranged the fruit bowl because he claimed it had been placed in an unstable position.
The hotel was hidden beyond a narrow stone road lined with lavender and olive trees.
It was small.
Old.
Pale stone covered in climbing vines, with blue shutters and terraces overlooking the hills.
Beyond the main building, a pool shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
There were perhaps eight rooms in total.
No crowds.
No photographers.
No one waiting outside with a camera.
The driver carried your suitcase through the arched entrance.
You followed, staring.
Tom waited in the courtyard.
He wore linen trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and sunglasses.
For one second, you stopped walking.
He looked relaxed.
Tanned from filming outdoors.
His hair had grown slightly longer.
The sight of him in the bright French light made the previous ten weeks feel suddenly, painfully real.
Tom removed the sunglasses.
His face changed when he saw you.
You abandoned the suitcase.
He reached you halfway across the courtyard.
His hands caught your waist.
You kissed him before either of you spoke.
The kiss was immediate and hungry, carrying every missed night, delayed flight and interrupted phone call.
Tom held you tightly enough to lift you slightly from the ground.
You laughed against his mouth.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
He kissed you again.
The driver looked tactfully toward the olive trees.
Tom eventually lowered you.
His hands remained at your waist.
“You’re here.”
“I am.”
“You were late.”
“Twelve minutes.”
“Sixteen.”
“That’s practically early.”
Tom kissed your forehead.
“Come upstairs.”
He took your suitcase despite your insistence that you could carry it.
The suite occupied the upper floor of a separate stone building overlooking the gardens.
Tom opened the door.
You stepped inside.
Then stopped.
The room had a high timber ceiling, pale walls and tall doors opening onto a private terrace.
There was a sitting area with linen sofas, an enormous bed beneath a gauzy canopy and a bathroom with a freestanding bath positioned beside an open window.
Beyond the terrace, steps descended directly toward a small private section of the pool.
A bottle of champagne waited in an ice bucket.
There were flowers on the table.
Fresh fruit.
Books.
Even a record player beside the sofa.
You turned slowly.
“Oh my God.”
Tom set down your suitcase.
You walked toward the terrace.
The view stretched across vineyards, fields and distant hills fading into blue.
You turned back toward him.
“This is amazing.”
Tom leaned against the doorway.
He looked pleased with himself.
“You like it?”
“How did you even find this?”
He hesitated.
That was enough.
You narrowed your eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tom.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I may have had help.”
“From whom?”
Another pause.
“Frank may have helped me arrange it.”
You stared at him.
Then looked around the suite again.
“Frank chose this?”
“He recommended it. He stayed nearby for a photography commission and knew the owner.”
You walked back toward Tom.
“Wow.”
His expression became faintly cautious.
You slipped your arms around his waist.
“Is he coming?”
Tom looked down at you.
“No.”
“No?”
“This is only you and me.”
Something softened inside you.
Not because you would have objected to Frank.
But because this was different.
This was not an experiment.
Not an impulsive night.
Not something arranged around another person.
This was Tom choosing an entire week for the two of you.
You looked toward the terrace again.
Then back at him.
“I like that.”
His hands settled against your back.
“Good.”
“Very much.”
He kissed you slowly.
No urgency this time.
No driver waiting.
No schedule pressing against the moment.
Just Tom, warm beneath your hands, and seven uninterrupted days ahead of you.
When he finally drew back, your forehead remained against his.
“Seven days,” you whispered.
“Seven days.”
“No work?”
“Minimal work.”
You pulled away.
“That is not the same thing.”
“One call on Monday.”
“Tom.”
“Possibly two.”
You stared at him.
“I can cancel them.”
“Good.”
You smiled.
Tom reached for the champagne.
“I thought we might have a drink, swim and then dinner later.”
You looked toward the pool.
Then toward the bed.
Tom followed your gaze.
His mouth curved.
“Or not in that order.”
You stepped closer.
“We have been having phone sex for ten weeks.”
“I’m aware.”
“It was deeply unsatisfactory.”
“You seemed satisfied on several occasions.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
He put the champagne bottle back into the ice.
“Yes.”
You took his hand.
“The pool can wait.”
Tom allowed you to lead him toward the bed.
“I had planned a very elegant arrival.”
“This is elegant.”
“You’re pulling my shirt out of my trousers.”
“Elegantly.”
He laughed and caught you around the waist.
“I missed you.”
The words stopped you.
They were quiet.
More vulnerable than the teasing.
You touched his face.
“I missed you too.”
Tom kissed you again.
Outside, the afternoon sun warmed the terrace stones.
The champagne remained unopened.
The pool waited.
For the first time in months, neither of you needed to look at a clock.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader, Possible Pregnancy?
The following morning, breakfast began before your father appeared.
Your mother sat at the kitchen table in a pale dressing gown, spreading butter across toast with the controlled, deliberate movements of someone who remained extremely angry but had decided not to express it before coffee.
Denise was cutting fruit for the children.
Arthur had his head bent over his phone.
Leo was reading the newspaper.
Tom sat beside you in the same grey tracksuit bottoms, his hair untidy and one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. He looked entirely functional, which felt unfair considering he had matched your father drink for drink and still remained capable of forming complete sentences.
You stole a piece of toast from his plate.
Tom looked at your empty plate.
“There is toast directly in front of you.”
“Yours is already buttered.”
“Because I buttered it.”
“Exactly.”
He watched you take a bite.
Then he reached for another slice without argument.
Arthur looked up from his phone.
“Disgusting.”
“What?” you asked.
“Domesticity.”
Tom placed the second slice into the toaster.
“You’re engaged.”
Arthur glanced at Leo.
“Yes, but we preserve a healthy level of resentment.”
Leo lowered the newspaper.
“He stole my socks this morning.”
“They were in my bag.”
“Because you packed them.”
“Possession is complicated.”
Footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Everyone looked toward the door.
Your father emerged.
He had changed into trousers and a jumper, but no amount of respectable clothing could conceal the fact that he was suffering.
His face was pale.
His eyes narrowed against the kitchen light.
He entered with the careful dignity of a man hoping nobody remembered the previous evening.
Nobody spoke.
Your mother opened a drawer.
She removed a packet of aspirin.
Then she placed two tablets and a glass of water on the table directly in front of his usual chair.
Your father sat.
He looked at the tablets.
Then at your mother.
“Good morning.”
Your mother continued buttering her toast.
“Is it?”
Your father drank the water.
Arthur covered his mouth.
Tom stared into his coffee.
You could feel laughter beginning to rise in your chest.
Your father swallowed the tablets.
“I may have slightly overdone it.”
Your mother looked at him.
“You sent me a message saying ‘don’t cook we eat out.’”
“It communicated the essential information.”
“You called Tom ‘son’ three times.”
Your father stopped.
Tom looked down very quickly.
Arthur made a small, delighted sound.
Your father turned toward Tom.
“Did I?”
Tom hesitated.
“Possibly.”
“Three times,” you said.
Your father looked at you.
“Nobody asked you.”
“You also told him he needed a better agent seven times,” Leo added.
“That remains true.”
Tom’s mouth twitched.
Your father pointed toward him.
“And you should still ask for one point two.”
Tom lifted his mug.
“I intend to.”
Your father nodded.
“Good.”
Your mother stared at both of them.
“You encouraged him.”
Tom lowered the mug.
“I’m not sure which part you mean.”
“The drinking.”
“He bought at least half the rounds.”
Your father straightened.
“Exactly.”
Your mother’s expression suggested that this defence had not helped either of them.
Denise put a bowl of fruit onto the table.
“It’s not particularly responsible to drink that much at your age.”
Your father turned his head slowly.
For perhaps the first time all weekend, Denise’s disapproval had been directed at him.
He looked faintly offended.
“Thank you, Denise.”
The tone ended the conversation.
The day became lazy after that.
Nobody suggested golf.
Nobody suggested a formal lunch.
Your father spent the first hour after breakfast in an armchair with his eyes closed, claiming that he was listening to the radio.
Your mother read beside the window.
The children built a complicated structure from cushions that they insisted was both a castle and a veterinary hospital.
By late morning, you, Tom, Arthur and Leo took the shorter walking trail around the grounds.
Tom carried coffee in a travel cup.
Arthur wore sunglasses despite there being no sun.
Leo brought his camera.
You brought nothing and complained about being cold until Tom gave you his jacket.
The walk took less than an hour.
It would have taken thirty minutes if the four of you had not stopped repeatedly.
Leo photographed an old stone wall.
Arthur climbed onto it despite Leo telling him not to.
Tom found another bird to identify.
You found a stick shaped vaguely like a handgun and threatened everyone with it until Tom confiscated it.
“You are twenty-four,” he said.
“I’m aware.”
He examined the stick.
“This does have a surprisingly convincing handle.”
Arthur held out his hand.
“Give it to me.”
Tom moved it away.
“No. You’ll encourage her.”
You took it back from him when he was distracted by a bird.
Lunch consisted of the roast your mother had prepared the previous night.
She served it without mentioning that everyone had abandoned her for fish and chips.
This was somehow more threatening than if she had complained.
Your father ate quietly.
Tom praised the roast three times.
Your mother gradually forgave him.
She did not forgive your father.
In the afternoon, you went into town again with your mother and Denise.
This time, there was no market.
You needed groceries, and your mother wanted to see a small exhibition in the upstairs rooms of the local gallery.
The children came with you.
Arthur and Leo remained at the house, claiming they were tired from the walk.
Tom also remained behind.
You assumed he would read or sleep.
The exhibition featured landscapes by local artists.
Your mother moved slowly from painting to painting, reading every card.
Denise kept the children close and whispered instructions about gallery behaviour.
You lasted fifteen minutes before drifting toward the gift shop.
You considered buying another book for Tom.
Then decided you had already purchased enough objects to make your affection obvious.
You bought a postcard instead.
At the supermarket afterward, your mother filled the trolley with enough food for the remaining evening and breakfast the following morning.
Denise compared the sugar content of three brands of yoghurt.
You stood beside the trolley eating grapes before they had been paid for.
Your mother noticed.
“Those need to be weighed.”
You looked down at the bag.
“I’ll tell them I ate six.”
“That is not how it works.”
“I’ll eat a round number.”
Your mother removed the grapes from you.
When you returned to the house, Arthur and Leo were on the sofa watching a crime drama.
Arthur had one leg over Leo’s lap.
Neither appeared to have moved in several hours.
You placed the grocery bags on the floor.
“Where are Dad and Tom?”
Arthur pointed toward the corridor.
“Study.”
You paused.
“Together?”
Leo looked away from the television.
“They’re playing chess.”
“Oh.”
Arthur smiled.
“Apparently Dad doesn’t hate him today either, which is a good sign.”
You walked to the study doorway.
The door stood partly open.
Your father sat behind the chessboard, his head bent in concentration.
Tom sat opposite him with one ankle over his knee, studying the pieces.
The room was silent except for the ticking clock.
Your father moved a knight.
Tom frowned.
“That is irritating.”
“That was the intention.”
Tom leaned forward.
“You’ve been setting that up for six moves.”
“Eight.”
Tom looked at him.
Your father’s mouth curved slightly.
Tom looked down at the board again.
You stayed outside the room.
Neither had noticed you.
Something warm moved through you.
It was not exactly affection between them.
Not yet.
But it was quieter than suspicion.
More comfortable than either man would have admitted.
You returned to the sitting room.
“They’re actually playing chess.”
Arthur nodded.
“Dad invited him.”
“Really?”
“Tom was reading. Dad walked in carrying the board and said, ‘You play?’ Tom said yes, and now they’ve been in there for an hour.”
Leo looked thoughtful.
“Maybe he won’t deny adopting him.”
You smiled.
Whatever progress had been made, however, was potentially short-lived.
That evening, after dinner, Tom sat at the end of the sofa with his phone in one hand.
You were beside him, half watching television and half scrolling through your own phone.
Arthur and Leo were arguing quietly about something on the screen.
Your mother and father had gone into the dining room to discuss plans for the following morning.
Denise passed through the room on her way upstairs.
Tom’s phone lit up.
The group chat notification appeared.
FRANK: How is your domestic family weekend going?
Tom read it.
His mouth curved.
He typed back.
TOM: I remain alive despite everyone’s best efforts.
Another message arrived.
FRANK: Remarkable resilience.
You leaned against Tom’s shoulder to read, then added to the group chat from your own phone.
YOU: My father likes him now.
Frank replied immediately.
TOM: He does not. But he is less hostile.
Tom glanced at you.
Denise slowed as she passed.
She heard Frank’s name when Arthur asked who Tom was messaging.
She saw Tom smiling down at the phone.
She continued walking, but not upstairs.
Instead, once the sitting room emptied later, she found your parents alone in the dining room.
You did not know about the conversation until half an hour later.
Tom had gone upstairs to shower.
You remained downstairs looking for the book you had bought him, which he had misplaced after carrying it through four different rooms.
Your mother appeared in the doorway.
“Could you come in here for a moment?”
You looked at her.
Your father sat at the dining table.
Denise was no longer present.
You already knew.
“What now?”
Your mother closed the door.
“Denise mentioned that Tom was messaging Frank this evening.”
You stared at her.
“Yes.”
Your father watched you.
“You knew?”
“I was sitting beside him.”
Your mother folded her arms.
“Why is he still messaging him so frequently?”
“Because they’re friends.”
“Former lovers,” your father corrected.
You exhaled.
“We have established that.”
“And you are comfortable with it?”
“Yes.”
Your mother hesitated.
“Denise said he was smiling at the messages.”
You looked between them.
“People sometimes smile when their friends say something funny. And, for what it’s worth, I am part of their chat. Frank messages me too.”
Your father’s expression remained serious.
“Why is Frank messaging both of you?”
You paused.
Then you decided there was no point avoiding it.
“Because we have a group chat.”
Your mother stared.
“You have a group chat with Tom’s former lover?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we do.”
“That is not an answer.”
“We have group chats with lots of friends.”
They looked at each other. Then back to you.
They let it go.
Not happily.
Not comfortably.
But they let it go.
When you left the room, Arthur waited in the corridor.
He leaned against the wall with his arms folded.
“Ambush?”
“Denise told them Tom was messaging Frank.”
Arthur’s expression hardened.
“Of course she did.”
You started toward the stairs.
He caught your wrist lightly.
“Wait.”
You turned.
Arthur glanced toward the dining-room door.
“Come upstairs.”
You followed him into his and Leo’s room.
Leo sat on the bed with a laptop open.
Arthur shut the door.
“What?” you asked.
Leo turned the computer toward you.
The page displayed a business notice.
You recognised Denise’s company name.
Beneath it were the words entered administration.
You looked at Arthur.
“When did this happen?”
“Filed last week.”
“Does Mum know?”
“I don’t think so. Or if she does, she hasn’t told us.”
You read the page again.
“What does this have to do with Tom?”
Arthur sat beside Leo.
“Maybe nothing. But I think a lot of Denise’s behaviour has less to do with morality and more to do with money.”
You frowned.
“How?”
“Dad put nearly a million into that business.”
You stared at him.
“A million?”
“Over several years. Investment, not a gift. At least officially.”
Leo closed another tab.
“The business has been struggling for a while.”
Arthur continued.
“Mum and Dad have supported her, but not the way they support us. Obviously. She isn’t their child.”
“They invested a million pounds.”
“Yes, but Dad also bought me a flat for one point eight and offered to buy you a house. He also supported both our careers financially when we started out. Denise knows that.”
You sat on the chair beside the desk.
“You think she’s jealous?”
“I think she’s frightened.”
“Of losing the business?”
“Of losing everything. And I think seeing dad around you and Tom, talk about houses and grandchildren and make plans around you probably made it worse.”
You looked toward the door.
“What exactly are you worried about?”
Arthur hesitated.
Then he said,
“She needs money.”
You waited.
“And if Mum and Dad don’t bail her out, I’d be careful about what she might sell.”
Your stomach tightened.
“To the press?”
“Information about you. Tom. Dad’s films. Anything she hears in this house.”
“She wouldn’t.”
Arthur looked at you.
“You haven’t seen her in years. You said yourself she’s changed.”
Leo spoke more gently.
“We’re not saying she definitely will. Just be mindful.”
Arthur nodded.
“Don’t leave phones lying around. Don’t discuss contracts or private family details near her. And tell Tom.”
You looked at the administration notice again.
A great deal of Denise’s behaviour suddenly looked different.
Not excusable.
But different.
You found Tom in the bedroom after his shower, rubbing a towel through his hair.
He wore only his tracksuit bottoms.
Steam followed him from the bathroom.
He looked at your face.
“What happened?”
You closed the door.
“Arthur found out Denise’s company has gone into administration.”
Tom stopped drying his hair.
You explained the investment.
The financial trouble.
Arthur’s concern.
The possibility that Denise might sell private information if she became desperate enough.
Tom listened without interrupting.
When you finished, he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Do you think she would?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has she had access to anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
Tom thought for a moment.
“My phone is locked. My laptop hasn’t left the room.”
“Mine has been everywhere.”
He looked at you.
“Of course it has.”
“That sounded judgemental.”
“It was.”
You sat beside him.
“Arthur said to be careful.”
Tom nodded.
“He might be right.”
You leaned against Tom’s shoulder.
“I hate thinking like this.”
His arm came around you.
“So do I.”
“She’s practically family.”
“People can be family and still behave badly when they’re frightened.”
You put simple safeguards in place.
You changed the passcode on your phone because Tom discovered it was still your childhood postcode.
He described this as “not a passcode but an invitation.”
You moved both laptops into the bedroom.
By the time you left at the end of the weekend, thank God, nothing had happened.
No stories appeared.
No private messages leaked.
No photographs were sold.
After that weekend, Denise returned home with the children, and whatever resentment or desperation had been building inside her remained private.
At least for the moment.
********
When you and Tom returned to London, the first problem waiting at home was Thomas.
The hamster sat inside his enclosure beneath an arch of shredded bedding.
He was big. Really big.
And he was unusually quiet.
You crouched beside the glass.
“He looks off.”
Tom knelt beside you.
“He’s awake.”
“Barely.”
Thomas opened one eye.
Then closed it again.
Sam stood behind you with his hands in his pockets.
“He ate quite a lot.”
Tom looked up.
“How much?”
“We still don’t know.”
Rob appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“He hid most of it.”
You looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“We found a bunker beneath the wheel.”
Tom opened the enclosure carefully.
Thomas sniffed his fingers but did not climb onto his hand.
Tom’s face became more serious.
“We’ll keep an eye on him tonight.”
“And take him to the vet if he’s still like this tomorrow,” you said.
Sam nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
Tom looked at him.
“You didn’t deliberately poison him.”
“That is a low bar.”
“But an important one.”
Thomas improved slightly that evening.
He drank water.
He ate a small piece of cucumber.
He moved several seeds from one hiding place to another, apparently deciding that the existing bunker lacked strategic value.
You and Tom still watched him closely.
At midnight, you found Tom crouched beside the enclosure again.
“He is a hamster,” you said from the doorway.
Tom looked over his shoulder.
“He is family.”
You walked over and rested your chin on his shoulder.
“Yes, and you are a good dad.”
“I’m monitoring a rodent.”
“Parenthood takes many forms.”
Thomas returned to normal by the following afternoon.
Tom remained suspicious of Sam’s feeding abilities.
Life accelerated almost immediately afterward.
You auditioned for another film.
The role was smaller than the one you had just finished but more demanding: a period drama centred on two sisters and a contested inheritance. You read twice for the director, then again opposite the actor cast as your husband.
Tom helped you prepare.
This meant reading every other part in an increasingly inappropriate series of accents until you threatened to remove him from the room.
“The character is French,” he said.
“You sound Belgian.”
“You cannot hear the difference.”
“Neither can you.”
He eventually read it properly.
You delivered the scene without laughing.
Two days later, your agent called to say the director wanted you.
Tom took Martin’s film too.
His agent requested one point two million.
Martin’s team agreed faster than expected.
Tom stared at the email.
Then handed you the phone.
“Your father was right.”
You read it.
“Never tell him.”
“I will have to tell him.”
“Lie.”
“He’ll find out.”
“Say you negotiated one point one.”
Tom looked at you.
“Why?”
“To preserve the natural order.”
He called your father.
Your father answered on the second ring.
Tom paced near the kitchen window while you listened.
“They accepted one point two.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Tom looked at you.
“No, I haven’t fired my agent.”
Your father spoke for several seconds.
Tom sighed.
“I will consider changing agents after the film.”
When the call ended, you waited.
“What did he say?”
Tom placed his phone down.
“‘Obviously.’”
You laughed.
The job meant Tom would complete the film in France first and move almost directly into twelve weeks of production for Martin’s film.
Three major projects in one year.
Your own work meant travel too.
There would be weeks when you were in different countries.
Possibly longer.
You hated the idea.
Tom did too.
Neither of you pretended otherwise.
But both of you understood what the work required.
You had chosen careers built around temporary families, strange cities and months spent pretending to belong to someone else.
The important part was returning.
Until the travel began, everything happened at once.
Ellie turned sixteen.
The birthday dinner was held at Tom’s house in the end, because Ellie no longer wanted to go to a restaurant now.
It was the first time you properly met his parents.
Phoebe hugged you almost immediately.
Charles shook your hand, then seemed to decide that was too formal and hugged you too.
Matilda arrived with flowers, two bottles of wine and a gift for Ellie so large that Tom accused her of trying to make everyone else look inadequate.
Ruth arrived last.
She walked in carrying a cake from Ellie’s favourite bakery and paused when she saw you standing beside Tom.
You had met before obviously. And when you did, it wasn’t pleasant.
So it was not like this.
Not with his parents present, Ellie watching everyone and the expectation that you would all sit together as something resembling a functional family.
Dinner placed you opposite Ruth.
Tom sat beside you.
Ellie sat at the head of the table because she had declared birthdays to be a temporary monarchy.
The first twenty minutes were strange.
Ruth asked Charles about his garden.
Phoebe asked you about your new role.
Tom refilled glasses too frequently.
Ellie watched everyone with visible amusement.
Then Matilda told a story about Tom becoming trapped in a laundry basket when he was six.
The tension broke.
Tom objected to every detail.
Phoebe confirmed all of them.
Ruth laughed.
You laughed.
Even Tom eventually laughed.
The evening went remarkably well.
Ruth did not mention the press.
Nobody discussed Frank.
Nobody questioned your age difference or Tom’s sexuality.
Ellie opened the crescent-moon earrings you had bought at the market and immediately put them on.
She hugged you.
Tom watched from beside the table.
His expression softened in a way that made your chest ache.
The following week, Ellie had a separate party with school friends.
A friend’s older sister had organised it at a private room above a restaurant.
Ruth had already agreed.
Tom was not enthusiastic.
“What kind of restaurant?”
Ellie looked up from her phone.
“A normal one.”
“What is the address?”
“I sent it to you.”
“Who is supervising?”
“Maya’s sister.”
“How old is Maya’s sister?”
“Twenty-three.”
Tom stared.
You sat at the kitchen counter trying not to smile.
“Twenty-three is not an adult,” he said.
Ellie looked at you.
You raised your eyebrows.
“I’m twenty-four.”
“Exactly.”
“Excuse me?”
Ellie laughed.
Tom ignored you.
“How many people are going?”
“I don’t know. Twenty?”
“You don’t know?”
“Maybe twenty-five.”
“Will there be alcohol?”
Ellie looked toward Ruth, who stood near the doorway.
Ruth sighed.
“They’ve promised there won’t be.”
Tom stared at her.
“And you believed them?”
“I was sixteen once.”
“That is not reassuring.”
Ellie folded her arms.
“You have literally been photographed leaving clubs at four in the morning.”
“As an adult.”
You coughed.
Tom looked at you.
“Do not join her.”
He requested the address again, the sister’s phone number, the venue manager’s name and confirmation of the collection time.
Ellie gave him almost all of it.
The party went well.
Tom remained awake until she returned.
He claimed he had been reading.
The same page had remained open for nearly an hour.
********
Around the same time, the renewal notice arrived for your flat.
You left it unopened on Tom’s kitchen counter for two days.
On the third morning, he picked it up.
“Your lease is due.”
You looked up from your coffee.
“Apparently.”
“Are you renewing it?”
You shrugged.
“I should probably decide.”
Tom placed the letter down.
He looked unexpectedly nervous.
“Don’t.”
You stared at him.
“Don’t what?”
“Renew it.”
The kitchen became quiet.
Tom rested both hands against the counter.
“You barely stay there. Half your clothes are here. Your books are here. Your shoes are everywhere.”
“They are not everywhere.”
He looked toward the hallway.
Three pairs sat beside the door.
“They migrate.”
“Exactly.”
He stepped closer.
“Move in properly.”
You studied him.
“Properly?”
“Bring the rest of your things. Stop paying rent for somewhere you don’t use. Have a key that isn’t the emergency spare you stole.”
“You gave me that key.”
“You took it from the drawer and announced that I had given it to you.”
“You didn’t ask for it back.”
Tom’s hands settled at your waist.
“I’m asking you to stay.”
The humour left your expression.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Even though I leave things everywhere?”
“I’m aware.”
“And I’ll rearrange the cupboards.”
“You already have.”
“I might want to paint something.”
Tom hesitated.
“We can discuss the walls.”
“That sounded reluctant.”
“It was cautious.”
You smiled.
“My parents will hate it.”
“Your father wants you in a house with grandchildren and a reliable car. This is movement in the correct direction.”
“He wants me in the inner east.”
“I cannot relocate my house to satisfy him.”
You put your arms around Tom’s neck.
“So this is an official invitation?”
“Yes.”
“Not me drifting in?”
“No.”
“You want to live with me?”
His expression softened.
“I already live with you. I would simply like you to admit it.”
You kissed him.
The lease remained unanswered.
A week later, you arranged for the rest of your belongings to be collected.
Your mother called it impulsive.
Your father asked whether there was a formal agreement.
Arthur asked whether Tom understood how much wardrobe space you required.
Leo sent flowers addressed to the happy cohabitants.
Ellie reacted with considerably less drama.
She came downstairs, saw three boxes in the hallway and looked at Tom.
“She’s officially moving in?”
Tom nodded.
“Yes.”
Ellie looked at you.
“Does this mean you’ll stop pretending you don’t live here?”
You considered it.
“Probably.”
She picked up one of your books from the top box.
“Can I have the bigger bathroom cupboard, then?”
Tom frowned.
“Why would this affect your cupboard?”
“Because she’ll take yours.”
You smiled.
Tom looked between you both.
“I am beginning to understand that I was not consulted about the practical details.”
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader, Possible Pregnancy?
The next morning, Tom came downstairs in grey tracksuit bottoms and a black T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower and his expression cautiously neutral.
He had spent several minutes choosing the tracksuit bottoms.
You knew this because you had watched him reject jeans, chinos and a second pair of trousers on the basis that they were all “unnecessarily ambitious.”
Your father was already in the kitchen making coffee.
He looked up as Tom entered.
“Morning, Thomas.”
Tom paused beside the island.
“Edward.”
Your father placed a mug in front of him.
Tom looked down at it.
Then at your father.
“Thank you.”
“Be ready by nine.”
Tom took his first sip.
“Ready for what?”
“Golf.”
Tom lowered the mug.
“Golf?”
Arthur entered through the opposite doorway, fully dressed in a navy polo shirt and looking deeply unhappy about it.
“Apparently, all the men are playing golf.”
Leo followed him, wearing cream trousers and carrying sunglasses despite the thoroughly overcast sky.
“And the women are going to the country market.”
Arthur looked at your father.
“Because we’re differentiating activities by gender in this house.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” your father said.
Tom looked between them.
Then toward the door, as though calculating whether he could escape through it without appearing rude.
“So I can’t go to the country market instead?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Absolutely not. If Leo and I have to play golf, you have to play golf.”
“I’ve never played golf.”
Your father handed Leo a coffee.
“You said you had.”
“I played miniature golf before.”
Arthur stared at him.
“That does not count.”
Tom considered this.
“There was a windmill.”
Leo nodded sympathetically.
“I imagine the skills are transferable.”
Your father looked at all three of them.
“We leave in forty minutes.”
Tom picked up his coffee.
“I think I’ve hurt my back.”
Arthur looked at him.
“Your back?”
Tom met his gaze.
Arthur’s mouth began to twitch.
Tom’s expression sharpened.
“Yes. My back.”
“From playing backyard football yesterday?”
“Precisely.”
Leo took a drink to hide his smile.
Your father was already moving toward the pantry.
“Walking will loosen it.”
Tom looked toward the ceiling.
“Excellent.”
You found him ten minutes later standing in your bedroom in front of the wardrobe.
He held a polo shirt at arm’s length as if it had personally offended him.
“I don’t own golf clothes.”
You sat cross-legged on the bed.
“That is a polo shirt.”
“It’s your brother’s. He said I could borrow it.”
“So borrow it.”
Tom looked at you.
“You are going to a market.”
“Yes.”
“There will be crepes.”
“Almost certainly.”
“And proper coffee.”
“Likely.”
“Possibly cheese.”
“Probably.”
He looked down at the shirt again.
“I am being punished.”
You climbed off the bed and moved toward him.
“You’ll have fun.”
“Arthur hates golf.”
“He’s good at it.”
“Leo likes golf.”
“Leo pretends to like golf because my father once complimented his swing.”
Tom frowned.
“Is he good?”
“No.”
“And your father?”
“Very.”
Tom stared at you.
“This is an ambush.”
You kissed him.
“Try not to lose any balls.”
His hands settled at your waist.
“I’m not worried about the balls.”
You laughed against his mouth and then disappeared to get ready yourself.
******
The golf course belonged to a private club less than twenty minutes from the house.
Your father had been a member for years.
Arthur had learned to play as a teenager, largely because your father considered it an important social skill. Arthur was good at it in the resentful, effortless way he was good at most things he had never cared enough to enjoy.
Leo had acquired expensive clubs after becoming involved with Arthur.
He talked confidently about handicaps and fairways.
He was also terrible.
Tom was worse.
Much worse.
His attention span lasted for approximately half of your father’s explanation of how to hold the club.
Then he became distracted by a bird in the tree behind them.
“Is that –“ he began, but stopped himself.
Your father stopped speaking.
“Thomas.”
Tom looked back.
“Sorry.”
“Hands together.”
Tom adjusted his grip.
“Like this?”
“No.”
Arthur stood beside Leo, resting both hands on his club.
“You’re holding it like an axe.”
“I have never held an axe.”
“That is not the defence you think it is.”
Leo examined Tom’s stance.
“Bend your knees slightly.”
Tom looked at him.
“You hit your last ball into a hedge.”
“That was wind interference.”
There was no wind.
Tom attempted the swing.
He missed the ball entirely.
The club struck the ground.
A clump of turf flew several feet behind him.
Arthur closed his eyes.
Your father stared at the damaged ground.
Tom looked down at the untouched ball.
“Interesting.”
“You have to look at it,” your father said.
“I was looking at it.”
“You were looking toward the trees.”
“I was aiming for the hole.”
Leo glanced at him.
“That sounded awful.”
Tom nodded once.
“I realised immediately after I said it.”
Arthur bent over laughing.
Your father pointed toward the ball.
“Again.”
Tom swung a second time.
He connected.
The ball shot sharply to the left, struck the trunk of a tree and disappeared into a patch of thick shrubs.
Everyone watched it go.
Tom lowered the club.
“Better.”
Your father looked at him.
“Not particularly.”
“Well, at least the ball moved.”
Arthur clapped him on the shoulder.
“That is the spirit.”
By the fourth hole, Tom had lost six balls.
By the fifth, he had become more interested in the architecture of the clubhouse visible across the lake.
By the sixth, he had asked whether anyone would object if he simply walked beside them and stopped participating.
Your father objected.
Arthur encouraged it.
Leo was too busy searching for his own ball.
Tom stood in the centre of the fairway, staring into the middle distance while your father attempted to explain club selection.
“You need the seven iron.”
Tom looked at the bag.
“Which one is that?”
“The one marked seven.”
“That makes sense.”
Arthur handed it to him.
“Try not to kill anyone.”
“I resent the lack of confidence.”
A golf buggy approached along the path.
The man driving lifted one hand when he saw your father.
“Edward!”
Your father turned.
The buggy stopped beside them.
The man climbing out was perhaps in his late fifties, deeply tanned and wearing trousers that seemed unreasonably white for an outdoor activity.
He shook your father’s hand.
“I didn’t know you were playing today.”
“Last-minute arrangement.”
The man looked at Arthur.
“Good to see you.”
“Hello, Martin.”
Then his attention moved to Leo.
And finally to Tom.
Recognition was immediate.
“Tom.”
Tom shifted the club into his other hand.
“Martin.”
Your father looked between them.
“You know each other?”
Martin smiled.
“We’ve met several times. Festivals, screenings, one deeply unpleasant awards dinner in Berlin.”
Tom nodded.
“The food was terrible.”
“The speeches were worse.”
Martin looked back at your father.
“Good to see you taking your son-in-law out for a game of golf. I didn’t think Tom played.”
“I’m not his son-in-law,” Tom said.
At the same moment, your father said, “He doesn’t. He’s terrible.”
There was a beat of silence.
Arthur looked away.
Leo covered his mouth with one hand.
Martin’s smile widened.
“Right.”
Tom adjusted his grip on the club.
“This is my first time.”
“That does explain the hole in the fairway behind you.”
Tom looked back at the damaged turf.
“That may have been there before.”
Your father did not dignify that with an answer.
Martin rested one hand against the golf buggy.
“I’m looking forward to seeing the film, Edward. Kurt showed me a few snippets last week. It looks extraordinary.”
Your father nodded.
“We’re pleased with it.”
Martin turned toward Tom.
“You were very good in what I saw.”
Tom looked faintly uncomfortable.
“Thank you.”
“Speaking of which, are you ever going to get back to me about that script? I sent it two weeks ago.”
Tom shifted his weight.
“I read it.”
“And?”
“I liked it.”
Martin waited.
Tom looked toward the trees.
“But I was hoping to do a play later this year. I miss the stage.”
Martin sighed.
“It’s eight hundred thousand for twelve weeks, Tom. I’m just saying.”
Tom’s attention returned to him.
Martin smiled.
“At least consider it.”
“I will.”
“Don’t take too long. We need to find someone soon.”
Tom rested both hands on the club.
“Who else have you cast?”
“Rebecca Ferguson. No one yet for the husband.”
Tom nodded thoughtfully.
“All right. I’ll speak to my agent.”
“Good.”
Martin climbed back into the golf buggy.
“Call me by the end of the week.”
“I will.”
Martin lifted a hand in farewell and drove away.
Your father watched the buggy disappear along the path.
Then he frowned.
“Eight hundred thousand for that film?”
Tom turned toward him.
“You don’t even know which film it is.”
Your father named it.
Tom stared at him.
“How did you know?”
Arthur looked at Leo.
Leo shrugged.
Your father adjusted his glove.
“Everyone knows. You should do it.”
Tom continued staring at him.
“Have you read the script?”
“I have.”
“Why?”
“Because I was offered the production last year.”
“And you declined?”
“Scheduling conflict.”
Your father took the seven iron from Tom and replaced it with a different club.
“You would be good in the role.”
Tom looked at the club.
Then at your father.
“Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t become excited.”
Your father turned his attention back toward the fairway.
“It’s a period piece. You handle verse well, and the character requires someone who can sound intelligent while making appalling choices.”
Arthur looked at Tom.
“Perfect casting.”
Tom ignored him.
Your father continued examining the distance to the green.
“But I would ask for one point two.”
Tom stared at him.
“One point two million?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you talking about negotiating a job I may not even be interested in?”
“Because you need a better agent.”
“My agent is fine.”
“Your agent allowed them to offer eight hundred.”
“That is still quite a lot of money.”
Your father looked at him as though he had said something deeply disappointing.
“For twelve weeks, international distribution and that level of physical preparation? No.”
Tom looked down at the club in his hands.
Then back at your father.
“Why are you trying to help me?”
Your father stopped.
Arthur and Leo stopped as well.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then your father looked at Tom.
“Because, unfortunately, my daughter is very fond of you.”
Tom’s expression shifted.
“Unfortunately?”
“For me.”
Arthur looked down at his shoes.
Your father continued.
“I would like to see her in a decent house in the inner east at some point. Perhaps with some children and a reliable car.”
Tom opened his mouth.
Your father lifted one hand, stopping him.
“But she is far too chaotic to be disciplined about sourcing financially viable work, and you give me a remarkably similar impression.”
Tom looked offended.
Then he remembered that he had lost six golf balls, damaged the course and spent part of the fourth hole following a woodpecker.
The offence weakened.
“Therefore,” your father continued, “on the odd chance that your relationship with her lasts, I want to make certain she is financially secure and properly cared for.”
Arthur frowned.
“You know you can simply buy her a house, dad.”
Your father looked at him.
“I offered.”
Tom looked surprised.
Arthur nodded.
“She said no?”
“Unlike you, yes. She refused and continues renting that dreadful unit.”
“My unit was worse.”
“You moved out of it.”
“Because you bought me a flat.”
“Exactly.”
Leo raised one hand.
“It is a very nice flat.”
Your father ignored him.
Tom looked down at the ball waiting several feet ahead.
“Y/N doesn’t need me to provide for her.”
“No. But she does need someone capable of locating the electricity bill before the power is disconnected.”
Arthur laughed.
Tom’s expression became thoughtful.
“Possibly, but that’s a separate issue.”
Your father looked toward the fairway.
“Either way, you should do the film. It’s a strong script, it would be good exposure, and you would really suit the role.”
Tom glanced at him.
Your father continued.
“Just don’t waste all that talent on theatre.”
Tom looked offended.
“I like theatre.”
“Yes. Very noble. Now hit the ball.”
Your father pointed toward it.
Tom adjusted his stance.
He swung.
The ball travelled backward.
Nobody spoke.
Tom turned around.
It had landed several metres behind him.
Arthur lowered himself onto the grass.
Leo laughed into his sleeve.
Your father stared at Tom as though attempting to solve a complicated philosophical problem.
How could this man be such a brilliant actor?
How could the same man apparently lack the coordination required to strike a stationary ball in the intended direction?
And why, of all the available men in London, was his daughter in love with this one?
Tom looked at the ball behind him.
“I think I’m improving.”
Your father shut his eyes.
***********
While the men suffered through golf, you went to the country market.
Your mother drove.
Denise sat in the front passenger seat.
You sat in the back between two children while the third stayed home with a babysitter.
The market occupied a village green surrounded by stone cottages and narrow lanes.
There were stalls selling bread, preserves, handmade soap, pottery, jewellery, plants and second-hand books. A local musician played guitar beside the church wall while several dogs strained at their leads toward a stall selling dried meat treats.
Your mother and Denise immediately established a pace.
They moved slowly.
They discussed everything.
They asked questions about ingredients.
They examined labels.
They compared prices.
You lasted twelve minutes before wandering away.
At the first jam stall, you bought a jar of blackberry and apple preserve because you thought Ellie might like it.
At the stall beside it, you found handmade hamster treats shaped like tiny stars.
The woman selling them assured you they contained no added sugar.
You bought two packets.
At the second-hand book stall, you found an old collection of stage essays with notes written in the margins by a previous owner.
It looked like exactly the sort of thing Tom would pretend not to be excited by before reading half of it in one evening.
You bought it.
Then you bought him a tin of smoky black tea.
You found silver earrings shaped like small crescent moons for Ellie.
You bought a candle that smelled like cedar and rain because it reminded you of Tom’s house after he left the windows open.
You bought a piece of pottery you did not need.
Then another jar of jam.
By the time your mother found you again, you were carrying three bags.
She looked inside the nearest one.
“What have you bought?”
“Things.”
“You already have things.”
“These are different things.”
Denise looked into the bag.
“Hamster treats?”
“For Nibbles and Thomas.”
“You bought a present for your hamsters?”
“Two presents.”
Your mother lifted the book.
“This is for Tom?”
“Yes.”
She looked at the tea.
“And this?”
“Also Tom.”
Denise examined the earrings.
“Those are for his daughter?”
You took them back.
“Yes.”
“You buy them a lot.”
“I saw things they might like, and I like to support small businesses. It’s not exactly expensive stuff.”
Your mother gave you a small, considering look.
You moved toward a food stall.
The smell of fried onions rolled across the green.
Usually, it would have made you hungry.
Instead, your stomach turned faintly.
You stopped.
Your mother noticed.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
She watched you.
“You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine. My taste buds have been strange lately.”
“Strange how?”
You shrugged.
“Not sure. Just weird.”
Denise looked at you.
“Are you ill?”
“No. It’s just annoying.”
Your mother touched the back of her fingers briefly to your forehead.
You moved away.
“Mum.”
“You don’t feel warm.”
“Because I’m not sick.”
She looked unconvinced but allowed you to continue.
You bought a plain bread roll because it seemed safe.
You ate half.
Then folded the rest into a paper bag.
Your mother resumed walking beside you.
“Arthur says you are practically living with Tom now.”
You sighed.
“Arthur is dramatic.”
“So you don’t live with him?”
“No. I just stay over and then don’t leave. That is different.”
Your mother looked at you.
“How?”
“There has been no formal moving process.”
“Your clothes are there.”
“Some of them.”
“Your shoes?”
“Several.”
“Toiletries?”
“Possibly.”
“You have moved in.”
“I have drifted in.”
Denise smiled faintly.
“That sounds like you.”
You ignored her.
Your mother stopped at a stall selling linen tablecloths.
“It is all moving very quickly.”
“Yes.”
She looked surprised by the lack of argument.
You continued.
“And I’m happy, so stop.”
“You only just met him.”
You looked at her.
“Technically, I met him well over a year ago.”
Your mother frowned.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. In New York. After a play, at an opening.”
Denise looked interested.
Your mother looked confused.
“You never mentioned that.”
“Because I didn’t know him at the time.”
There was a pause.
Your mother slowly lowered the tablecloth.
“What does that mean?”
You should have stopped.
You knew you should have stopped.
Instead, you continued.
“We had sex for about six hours. I didn’t get his name, but apparently I was doomed from then on, so there we go...”
Your mother stared at you.
Denise stared at you.
The woman selling tablecloths stared at you.
You became aware of the silence.
“Right,” you said. “That was too much information.”
Your mother’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
“Six hours?”
“Please don’t focus on the duration.”
“You didn’t know his name?”
“No. It didn’t come up.”
The tablecloth seller turned away with visible effort.
Denise looked appalled.
“You slept with a stranger for six hours?”
“Yes. I know. I was surprised by it too.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“It explains some of it.”
Your mother rubbed her forehead, picked up the tablecloth again, then put it down again.
She appeared to have lost interest in linen.
Denise folded her arms.
“You know James has a new girlfriend.”
The sudden change of subject was so abrupt that you looked at her.
“Good for him.”
“You don’t care?”
“No, but I hope he is less of a dick to her.”
Your mother quietly said your name.
“What? He was.”
Denise adjusted the strap of her bag.
“I’m only saying you were with him for years. You were engaged. Then Tom appeared and everything blew up.”
You stared at her.
“Everything blew up before Tom.”
“He was involved.”
“He was not involved when James became controlling and started taking coke.”
Denise’s expression tightened.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“You went from one serious relationship straight into another.”
“Because the first relationship should have ended years earlier.”
“It still seems fast.”
You shifted the bags in your hand.
“What is your issue with Tom specifically?”
“I don’t have an issue.”
“You have spent most of yesterday suggesting he is rubbish as a parent, a bad influence for me, incapable of monogamy and genetically unsuitable to reproduce.”
Your mother looked around.
“Could we perhaps not do this in the middle of the market?”
“Denise started it.”
Denise lowered her voice.
“I don’t have a specific issue with him.”
“You clearly do.”
She hesitated.
You waited.
At last, she said, “He’s strange.”
You blinked.
“Strange?”
“He’s forty and behaves like he’s twenty. He can’t sit still. He smokes. He has all that history with men, and women, and the press, and his daughter, and the age difference—”
“There it is.”
“You asked.”
“And what is any of that to you?”
Denise stopped.
Her mouth opened.
No answer came.
You held her gaze.
“He is kind to me. He loves his daughter. He is patient when I’m impossible, and I am happy with him. Why does any of that other stuff matter to you?”
Denise looked toward your mother as if expecting support.
Your mother did not provide it.
“I’m worried you don’t see him clearly,” Denise said eventually.
“I see him more clearly than you do.”
“You’re infatuated.”
“Possibly. It’s enjoyable.”
Your mother gave you a warning look.
You continued.
“But that still does not explain why you seem personally offended by him.”
Denise looked away.
She could not answer.
The silence that followed was broken by one of the children asking for ice cream.
Your mother immediately agreed.
She bought one for each child and one for you.
You took two bites before the sweetness became unpleasant and handed it to the youngest.
Your mother noticed that too.
She said nothing.
********
When you returned to the house, the men were already there.
Arthur lay across one sofa with his shoes off.
Leo stood near the drinks cabinet making himself something strong despite it being barely lunchtime.
Your father sat near the window reading emails.
Tom was sprawled in an armchair, still wearing the polo shirt with the horse and staring at nothing.
You entered carrying your bags.
He lifted his head.
“You’re alive.”
“I went to a market.”
“I played golf.”
You placed the bags down.
“How was it?”
Tom looked at your father.
Your father did not look up from his phone.
“Your father believes I need a better agent, a higher salary and formal supervision.”
Arthur spoke from the sofa.
“He hit one ball backward.”
You looked at Tom.
“How?”
“It’s complicated.”
Leo handed Tom a drink.
“He also nearly struck a tree from approximately two metres away.”
“The tree was in an unreasonable position.”
Your father looked up.
“It had been there for at least eighty years.”
“Exactly. Complacent.”
You crossed the room and sat on the arm of Tom’s chair.
He leaned into your side.
“Did you enjoy the market?”
“I bought you things.”
His face softened.
“What things?”
You handed him the book.
He opened it carefully.
He read the title.
Then flipped through several pages.
He noticed the handwritten annotations.
His expression changed.
“This is lovely.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I do.”
You gave him the tea.
Then the candle.
Tom looked into the bag.
“How much did you buy?”
“Not much.”
Your mother entered behind you.
“She bought half the market.”
You handed Ellie’s earrings and the jam to Tom.
“Those are for Ellie.”
He looked at the earrings.
“She’ll love them.”
“And hamster treats.”
“Of course.”
Arthur sat up.
“You bought the hamsters a present?”
“Two.”
Tom kissed your shoulder.
“Clearly, I am blessed.”
Your father made a quiet sound from beside the window.
Tom glanced at him.
Your father returned to his phone.
********
Lunch was served in the kitchen.
By then, everyone had separated into distinct states of exhaustion.
Arthur remained stretched across the sofa until your mother informed him that lunch was not going to walk over and feed itself to him.
Leo had already finished one drink and was debating whether opening a bottle of wine before one o’clock would make him look alcoholic.
Your father said it would.
Then poured himself a glass.
Tom remained in the armchair with the book you had bought him open across one knee, occasionally turning a page while pretending not to listen to the argument happening around him.
You sat on the arm of his chair and stole pieces of bread from his plate.
“You have your own,” he said.
“Yours tastes better.”
“It came from the same loaf.”
“That is irrelevant.”
He allowed you to take another piece.
Your mother had made soup, cold meats and several salads because apparently nobody knew what time the men would return from golf.
Denise’s children were still tired from the previous day and increasingly uninterested in the concept of sitting properly.
The youngest crawled under the table.
The eldest complained that the soup contained visible vegetables.
The middle child wanted to know whether Tom had won golf.
Tom looked at your father.
Your father looked at Tom.
“No,” they said together.
The child frowned.
“Who won?”
Arthur pointed toward your father.
“Grandad always wins.”
Lunch lasted nearly an hour, mostly because the children ate at different speeds and your mother refused to clear anything until everyone had finished.
By the end, your father had reached his limit.
He placed his napkin beside his plate.
“Right.”
Everyone looked at him.
He stood.
“The football is on at three. We’re going to the pub.”
Arthur stared.
“Who is we?”
Your father looked at him.
“The men.”
Arthur leaned back in his chair.
“Why are we having separate men and women activities again? Have we returned to the nineteenth century?”
Leo nodded.
“I would also like this explained.”
Your father ignored them.
Tom looked up from his coffee.
“Football?”
“Yes.”
“Which game?”
“Arsenal. Obviously.”
Tom’s expression changed immediately.
“At a pub? With beer?”
“Yes.”
Tom stood.
“No objections.”
Arthur looked at him. Baffled.
Your mother began collecting plates.
“Denise and I were going to bake with the children this afternoon.”
You looked from her to Denise. Denise had already produced a notebook containing a recipe for sugar-free banana muffins.
You looked toward your father.
“I’m coming to the pub.”
Your mother stopped.
“You don’t even like football.”
“I like beer.”
*********
The pub was crowded. It occupied the ground floor of an old stone building in the village, with low ceilings, dark timber beams and televisions mounted in corners that looked too modern for the room. Red-and-white scarves hung behind the bar. The match had not started yet, but nearly every table was occupied.
Your father knew the landlord. Of course he did. He knew half the people inside.
Within minutes, a table had been found near the largest television and five pints had appeared without anyone formally ordering them. You sat between Tom and Arthur. Your father sat opposite Tom. Leo took the chair at the end of the table.
For the first ten minutes, the conversation revolved around team selection. You understood almost none of it. Tom and your father disagreed about the midfield. Then they agreed about the defence. Then they became offended by something the commentator said before the players had even entered the pitch.
You looked at Arthur. Arthur looked at you.
“Oh,” he said.
You nodded slowly.
“They have something in common.”
Leo leaned across the table.
“This may be the first time they’ve spoken without one of them questioning the other’s intentions.”
Your father pointed at the screen.
“He shouldn’t be starting.”
Tom immediately nodded.
“No, he shouldn’t. He’s not fit.”
You looked at Arthur again.
Arthur appeared disturbed.
“This is worse than the golf bonding.”
“They did not bond over golf.”
“Dad negotiated Tom’s next salary.”
Tom overheard.
“He interfered with my employment.”
Your father did not look away from the television.
“You’re welcome.”
The match began. You attempted to follow it. For approximately seven minutes, you concentrated on the ball. Then someone ran offside, everyone in the pub shouted and you lost interest.
You took out your phone. Tom glanced down.
“You’ve given up already?”
“I’m still watching.”
“You’re reading about a woman restoring a dollhouse.”
You turned the screen away.
“It’s very intricate.”
Arsenal scored twelve minutes later. The pub erupted.
Tom stood so quickly that his chair scraped backward. Your father stood at the same time. They shouted at the screen.
Then, somehow, your father grabbed Tom’s shoulder and Tom grabbed his arm, both of them laughing as though they had personally contributed to the goal.
You stared.
Arthur leaned toward you.
“Take a photograph. Nobody will believe us.”
You raised your phone.
Tom saw.
“Don’t.”
You took it anyway.
Your father was already sitting down again, attempting to recover his usual dignity. Tom looked delighted.
You sent the picture to your mother.
YOU: They’ve bonded.
Her reply came almost immediately.
MUM: How much have they had to drink?
You looked at the table. Your father’s first pint was empty. A second had appeared. Tom was halfway through his second.
YOU: Two each.
MUM: Bring your father home before dinner.
You put the phone away. That seemed achievable. It was not.
Every time your father’s glass approached empty, Tom either gestured toward the bar or returned with another round. At first, you assumed he was deliberately encouraging him. Then you realised your father was doing the same thing. Neither seemed willing to allow the other to drink faster. It became a quiet, deeply masculine contest that nobody had formally acknowledged.
Your father was several years older. Tom had spent enough of his adult life at industry events and opening-night parties to possess an alarming tolerance. So your father was losing.
By half-time, they were discussing theatre. Your father still believed Tom should take the film. Tom still believed theatre was not a waste of time.
“You cannot replicate a live audience,” Tom said.
Your father took a drink.
“You also cannot edit a live performance.”
“That’s the point.”
“That is not a point in its favour.”
“It makes it immediate.”
“It makes it dangerous.”
Tom smiled.
“Exactly.”
Your father looked at him for a moment.
Then nodded reluctantly.
“You are good onstage.”
Tom blinked.
“You’ve seen me?”
“Twice.”
“Why?”
Your father looked offended by the question.
“I work in film. I see actors.”
“Right,” Tom acknowledged.
You smiled innocently at that.
At some point during the second half, your phone vibrated.
The message came from Sam.
SAM: Thomas may have had too much food.
A photograph followed.
Thomas the hamster sat in the centre of his enclosure looking noticeably round.
You stared at it.
Then showed Tom.
“Sam has made my hamster obese.”
Tom took the phone.
He enlarged the picture and laughed.
“He has become spherical.”
Arthur leaned across.
“Is that the hamster named after Tom?”
“Unfortunately,” Tom said.
Another message appeared.
SAM: He looks fatter than usual. I think he got into the food bag.
YOU: Please remove access to the food bag before Thomas becomes a football.
Sam sent another picture.
Thomas was now sitting inside his food dish.
SAM: Too late.
You laughed.
Tom looked at the image and shook his head.
“He’ll hide most of it.”
“Inside himself?”
“In the bedding.”
“He looks very pleased.”
“He always looks pleased. He has no responsibilities.”
Arthur glanced at the screen.
“That hamster has the same expression our father currently has.”
You looked across the table.
Your father had finished another pint and was explaining the offside rule to Leo, who understood it perfectly well but had stopped correcting him.
“That’s accurate,” you said.
Arsenal scored again.
Whatever remained of your father’s restraint disappeared.
He stood, shouted something inappropriate about the opposing goalkeeper and slapped Tom on the back hard enough to send beer over the table.
Tom laughed and passed him a napkin.
“Careful.”
Your father looked at him with sudden, drunken affection.
“You’re all right, son.”
Silence fell around your table.
Not across the pub.
The pub remained deafening.
But the five of you stopped.
Tom stared at your father.
Arthur’s mouth dropped open.
Leo turned very slowly toward you.
Your father appeared not to realise what he had said.
He wiped beer from the table.
“Good actor. Terrible golfer. But you’re all right.”
Tom looked at you.
You looked back.
Arthur whispered,
“He will deny this tomorrow.”
Leo nodded.
“Completely.”
Tom’s face had gone slightly red.
He lifted his pint.
“Thank you, Edward.”
Your father pointed toward him.
Then they drank.
You leaned toward Arthur.
“This is bizarre.”
“Dad has adopted him following a thorough assessment process it seems.”
Leo smiled.
“Tom passed by supporting Arsenal it seems.”
You looked at Tom. He was now arguing with your father about whether a substitution should have happened ten minutes earlier. Neither of them noticed you watching.
The match ended with Arsenal winning.
Your father insisted on one celebratory drink. Tom agreed. That became two because somebody your father knew sent over a round.
Then the landlord produced whisky. By the time you checked the time, it was after seven. Your phone contained four messages from your mother.
MUM: What time will you be back?
MUM: The roast is nearly ready.
MUM: Where are you?
MUM: Answer me.
You showed your father.
He squinted at the screen.
“Tell her not to cook.”
“She has already cooked.”
“Tell her we’ll eat here.”
“She made a roast.”
Your father waved one hand.
“We’ll have it for lunch tomorrow.”
You stared at him.
“You tell her.”
He took out his phone. It took him several attempts to unlock it. Eventually, he typed.
DAD: Don’t cook we eat out.
Your mother replied before he had placed the phone down.
MUM: I MADE A ROAST.
Your father read it. Then typed.
DAD: Have it for lunch.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
MUM: You are all impossible.
Your father nodded at the message.
“Sorted.”
Arthur laughed.
“You’re dead.”
“Nonsense.”
Tom looked at the menu.
“We should probably order food before anyone drinks anything else.”
Your father put one hand on his shoulder.
“Good thinking, son.”
Tom froze again.
Arthur looked at you.
“Twice.”
“He can never deny it now.”
“He’ll claim he was referring to the landlord.”
The landlord was a woman.
You ordered fish and chips for the table. Your father ordered another pint. Tom attempted to stop him. Your father accused him of becoming controlling. Tom withdrew the objection.
The five of you ate surrounded by noise, spilled salt and empty glasses. It was not the elegant family dinner your mother had planned. It was also considerably more enjoyable.
By the time you finally left, it was nearly nine. The village had gone dark. Your father walked between Tom and Arthur, insisting that he required no assistance while leaning heavily on both of them.
Leo carried everyone’s coats. You followed with the remaining chips in a paper bag.
“I am completely steady,” your father said.
Arthur adjusted his grip on his arm.
“You’re walking diagonally.”
“The road is uneven.”
Tom looked down.
“It’s flat.”
Your father turned toward him.
“You’re a good lad.”
Tom looked ahead.
“Thank you.”
“Terrible at golf.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“But talented.”
“Thank you.”
“Need a better agent.”
Your father patted his shoulder.
*********
When you reached the house, your mother was waiting in the entrance hall. She wore a dressing gown over her clothes and had the expression of a woman who had spent several hours becoming progressively angrier.
Denise stood at the top of the stairs.
Your father saw your mother. He attempted to stand straighter. This caused him to sway. Tom caught his elbow.
Your mother stared.
“What happened?”
Arthur removed his shoes.
“Arsenal won.”
“I can see that Arsenal won. Why is your father unable to stand?”
Your father lifted one hand.
“I can stand.”
Tom released him experimentally. Your father leaned sideways. Tom caught him again.
“He can stand with support,” Tom clarified.
Your mother looked at Tom.
“How much did he drink?”
Tom considered the question.
“That depends on how precisely you need the answer.”
“Precisely.”
Tom looked toward Arthur. Arthur looked toward Leo. Leo looked toward you. You held up both hands.
“I stopped counting.”
Your mother shut her eyes. Your father smiled at her.
“We had a good day.”
“I made a roast.”
“Tomorrow’s lunch.”
Your mother took his other arm.
“Come upstairs.”
Your father looked back at Tom.
“Night, son.”
Tom went still for the third time.
Your mother stopped. Her eyes moved from your father to Tom. Arthur made a strangled sound behind his hand. Your father continued up the stairs as if nothing unusual had happened. Your mother followed him, looking deeply suspicious. When they disappeared around the landing, silence filled the hall.
Then Arthur turned to Tom.
“He is going to deny every second of this tomorrow.”
Leo placed the coats over a chair.
“He may deny knowing any of us.”
Tom looked toward the staircase.
“He called me son.”
“Three times,” you said.
Arthur nodded.
“He’s adopted you.”
Tom removed his shoes.
“I’m forty.”
Denise was still standing at the top of the stairs. She looked down at Tom. Then at you.
“You left your mother here with the children all afternoon.”
You looked up.
“You were also here.”
“That isn’t the point.”
Arthur sighed.
“Please don’t begin another moral inquiry tonight.”
Denise’s mouth tightened. She turned and walked away.
Leo watched her disappear.
“She really does dislike us.”
“Mostly Tom,” you said.
Tom looked offended.
“What have I done?”
Arthur counted on his fingers.
“You are bisexual. A smoker. An actor. Have ADHD. Bad golfer. Bad parent.”
You took Tom’s hand and led him upstairs.
Once the bedroom door closed behind you, both of you stood in silence.
Then you looked at one another.
“Your father called me son,” Tom said.
“He did.”
“Repeatedly.”
“He likes you now.”
Tom pulled his shirt over his head.
“He was drunk.”
You sat on the bed.
“Yes and you got him drunk.”
Tom looked at you.
“I did not.”
“You kept giving him beer.”
“He kept giving me beer.”
“You were competing.”
“There was no competition.”
You raised your eyebrows.
Tom folded his shirt over the chair.
“He started it.”
“And you had to keep up?”
Tom gave you a flat look.
“I kept up perfectly well.”
“Exactly.”
He sat beside you and removed his watch.
“Your father is deceptively competitive.”
You leaned against him.
“You bonded over Arsenal.”
“We agreed on several objectively correct tactical points. That’s about it.”
You laughed.
Tom’s arm moved around your waist. For a moment, you rested quietly against him.
Then your phone vibrated. Another message from Sam.
SAM: Your hamster has not deflated yet. I took the treats away.
Hi, I'm new here and English isn't my first language, but I want to write a story. Damn, nothing's coming to mind. Pff, okay, I guess I can handle this.
Going with Remainder Tom this morning. A mind fuck of a movie but worth the watch...Tom is excellent. How does he look so good beaten and bedraggled, I ask you?
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
