Chapter 11
PETE
Pete can’t stop looking at Tom’s mouth when he laughs—head tipped back, eyes creasing, the sound catching warm in Pete’s chest. They spill out of the taxi still laughing and Tom fumbles his keys like he’s never encountered a lock before.
“Third time’s the charm,” Tom says, missing on the fourth.
“Here,” Pete murmurs, gently taking the keys. “Allow a professional.” The door clicks, and Tom shoots him a look like he’s just solved world peace.
Inside, the house smells of wood polish and something citrus. It has that quiet pride, three storeys of clean lines and quiet wealth—the kind of place that makes you take your shoes off out of respect. That feeling of home.
One he’s not felt for a long while.
A tabby cat pads into the hallway with the sort of disdain only cats and certain ma?tre d’s can pull off.
“Buster,” Tom announces. “This is Pete. Be kind.”
The cat gives Pete a long, unimpressed blink and leaves the room as if filing a complaint
“He’ll come back when he decides I’m worthy,” Pete says.
“You and every man I’ve ever dated,” Tom mutters, then flushes. “Tea? Wine? Water? A ceremonial handshake?”
Pete grins. “Wine. And I’ll forgo the handshake if you promise never to say ‘ceremonial handshake’ again.”
Tom returns with two glasses of red, sets them down, then hovers close enough for Pete to notice the flecks of grey at his temples.
The first kiss makes time politely leave the room. Tom tastes faintly of mint and beer and something Pete suspects is relief. By the time they reach the stairs, laughing and bumping into the banister like teenagers, the sofa is irrelevant.
In the bedroom, under the soft glow of the lamp, they take their time before abandoning the idea of promises altogether. Pete tries not to catalogue every small thing that ruins him—how careful Tom is, how quickly he blushes, the way he says Pete’s name like a decision he enjoys making.
Afterward, they lie tangled in the heat, a sheet more decorative than functional. Tom breathes hard beneath Pete’s palm, staring at the ceiling as though searching for a script.
“That was…” Tom’s voice falters. “Really nice.”
“Nice?” Pete teases. “That’s British understatement. File it next to ‘bit chilly’ and ‘my nan’s funeral was fine.’”
Tom laughs, tips his face toward Pete, kisses him softly. The room drifts into that delicate quiet where you either reach for your phone or confess something unplanned. Tom chooses confession.
And then they talk more, this time about Tom’s ex-husband.
“He was… controlling,” Tom says carefully, like handling glass. “I thought it was love — but I was being managed. Stripped apart bit by bit.
“He had a gambling habit too,” he continues.
“It was getting progressively worse. Which was making him progressively worse. It had put a big dent in our finances by the time I found out what was happening. I bailed him out too many times. Took me too long to leave. I should have gone earlier, but he had this hold over me. And even now, I still hear him sometimes. In my head. Asking where I am. Why I didn’t reply sooner. ”
“No, I understand, I do.” Pete admits. And he really does. “That must be hard to move on from.”
“Yeah, definitely. I’m naturally the type of person who sees the good in people, trusts them.
I don’t want to get my defences up, but sometimes I can.
Sometimes I hold back. I overthink. Question every little thing.
Assume the worst. Think the worst, most negative things about myself.
It’s not a trait I’m proud of, but…” Tom loses his words.
“It’s something he’s instilled in you?” Pete suggests.
After a pause, Tom can only nod.
“Was he ever violent?” Pete asks before he can stop himself, voice soft but blunt.
Tom’s pause says enough. He stares at the ceiling, then shakes his head faintly. “I don’t want to spoil tonight talking about my ex,” he says.
“Okay,” Pete says, meaning it. “Another time.”
Tom exhales, presses his forehead to Pete’s. “Another time.”
Soon Tom drifts, arm heavy across Pete’s waist, his breath evening into sleep. Pete lies awake, watching the streetlight’s sweep across the ceiling.
He should feel only good. Tom laughed at all his stories, did that thing with his hands that made Pete’s legs forget how to function, and now lies beside him, feeling his warmth. But dread slips into the room anyway, as punctual as guilt.
Because Pete lied.
Too many times tonight.
Of course, James knew about our date. Lie.
Yes, we’re both happy to explore new connections. Lie
James is a brilliant, loving man. Lie. Lie. Lie
Pete had painted honesty as the spine of it all, told Tom with a bright, reassuring voice that polyamory meant care, respect, openness. And Tom had believed him—because Tom, with those kind eyes, believes in people. Pete had been given his trust and immediately stained it with omission.
The truth: James didn’t know about tonight.
He wouldn’t understand.
No doubt, his response would be aggressive, volatile.
But lying here with Tom, Pete knew this was something he had to explore.
Tom was caring, loving, honest, he knew that much already. And this was a relationship he wanted more than anything to progress. To take him to the next stage in his life.
James would not be happy.
And an unhappy James was more than just a complication.
As he’d witnessed before, this could be a matter of life or death.