Chapter 15
PETE
Pete stands at the doorway as Tom pulls on his coat. The night air is cool, cutting through the tension that has clung to the house like static since dinner.
“Well,” Tom says, his hand on the zip, voice light but not light enough. “That was… weird.”
Pete smiles, soft, disarming. “Weird good or weird bad?”
Tom hesitates. “Just… weird. James seemed upset.”
“He wasn’t upset,” Pete says quickly, too quickly, before softening it with a shrug. “Just nervous. That’s how he is—he’s protective. But he was pleased to meet you.”
Tom’s expression says he doesn’t quite buy it.
“I thought I heard you arguing,” Tom adds carefully.
Pete waves it away with a hand, casual, like shooing a fly. “Oh, no, just a little disagreement. Nothing serious.” He flashes a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Right,” Tom says, unconvinced, his eyes flicking away.
They stand for a beat too long, the air charged with things unspoken. Tom’s Uber appears at the driveway. Pete leans in, kisses him on the cheek, keeps the smile fixed even as something inside him coils tight. “Get home safely.”
Tom disappears into the night.
The door clicks shut. The smile slides from Pete’s face.
The house exhales into silence.
In the garden, Sam’s silhouette glows faintly, a vape lighting his face like a cigarette in a noir film. James is slumped on the sofa, long legs stretched out, an empty wine glass hanging loosely from one hand.
Pete doesn’t speak. Not yet. He slips into the kitchen, the sound of plates and cutlery a quiet cover for the storm he feels brewing. He moves mechanically — scraping leftovers into the bin, rinsing dishes, stacking glasses — his mind replaying the dinner in detail, frame by frame.
Tonight was never going to be easy.
James was never going to play gracious host. He’d known that before Tom even arrived, and still he’d pushed for it. Should he have warned Tom? Probably. But he didn’t want to scare Tom off when things were going so well.
Tom needed to meet James, needed to see him as a person, not just a shadow behind Pete’s life. He wants this to work so badly, him and Tom, making it work together.
James would come around eventually. He always did.
This was their rhythm — conflict and calm, storm and still water. It was what they’d built together.
But still, Pete had hoped it would go better than this.
And Sam, Sam couldn’t help himself. Always the little arsonist, tossing matches just to see what burns. Mentioning Chris like that — casual, cruel — watching Pete stiffen and James go cold.
Pete clenches the cloth in his hand, jaw tightening. Chris’s name was going to come out eventually, sure, but not like that. Not tonight. Not with Tom sitting there, wide-eyed, taking it all in like a court stenographer.
What must Tom think now? That Pete is still hung up on Chris? That this house is one big mausoleum for failed love stories?
Maybe that’s better than him considering what really happened to Chris.
Pete finishes clearing the plates and takes a long breath before walking back to the living room.
James hasn’t moved. He’s staring at the blank television, jaw set, eyes glassy from wine and anger.
“Sam,” Pete says, not looking at him, “why did you bring up Chris?”
Sam exhales a cloud of vapour that curls lazily into the night air before dissipating. “Because it’s true,” he says with a shrug, leaning on the doorframe. “He would have loved that wine.”
“You know what that does to James,” Pete snaps, his voice low, careful not to ignite James further.
Sam smirks. “James can handle it. Can’t you, babe?”
James doesn’t answer.
Pete steps closer, crouching beside the sofa. “James,” he says softly, “thank you for tonight. You knew this was going to be hard. But it was important.”
James turns his head slowly, the look in his eyes enough to still Pete’s breath.
“Important for who?” James asks, his voice deceptively calm.
“For us,” Pete says.
James laughs—short, sharp, joyless—and sits forward suddenly. “For us. Right.”
Pete swallows, tries to steady his tone. “This is what we decided, right? What would be good for us.”
Pete takes a step closer, lowers his voice. “I’m trying to make this work, James. I’m trying to build something good here.” He places his hand on James’s shoulder. Soft, intimate.
Then James shoves him.
Pete stumbles, catches himself on the edge of the sofa, but James is already stepping forward, crowding him.
“James—”
The kick takes him by surprise, catching him in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. He doubles over, the floor rushing up to meet him.
Somewhere above him, Sam chuckles, a low, amused sound, and walks away, the back door sliding shut behind him.
Pete lies there, cheek pressed to the rug, the taste of blood in his mouth.
This is what love looks like, he tells himself.
This is what it costs.
When the house finally falls silent, he pushes himself up slowly, painfully, and sits back on his heels.
Tomorrow, he’ll message Tom.
Tomorrow, he’ll smile, make a joke, keep the illusion alive.
Because Tom believes in him. And that belief — fragile, dangerous — is the one thing Pete can’t afford to lose.