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Chapter 18

TOM

I don’t know why I agreed to stay over. Actually, that’s a lie—I know exactly why.

Because when Pete asks me something, my brain doesn’t do due diligence, like one of those nodding dogs people stick in the back of their cars.

I’d told Craig earlier that I wanted this. That I was actively choosing to come back here. And at the time, I meant it. But walking up the drive now, away from my parked car, I have a growing urge to spin on my heels and drive myself back home.

Because I know what this is.

I know there are red flags here. Whole red bunting displays, doused in petrol and set ablaze, fluttering in the breeze.

My rational brain is holding up laminated signs saying danger, do not proceed.

But my emotional brain? Oh, he’s already inside the house, putting the kettle on, asking Pete how his day was, while stroking his hair.

Because Pete makes me feel wanted. Not tolerated, not managed — wanted. Desired in a way that makes my chest ache.

And that’s the bit I can’t walk away from.

Seeing Daniel earlier — appearing out of the blue, like he was watching me, before he disappeared — was just another incentive to move ahead with this, to break away from the hold he has over me.

For years, I’ve convinced myself that feeling was for other people. That I’d missed my shot.

But with Pete… maybe I haven’t.

And maybe that’s worth ignoring a few flags for?

Inside the house, Pete greets me with that grin that should be prescribed on the NHS, and suddenly I’m a little less ready to bolt. The dining table is already set, candles lit, wine breathing in some fancy decanter.

“This looks nice,” I say, trying not to sound like someone who has never seen placemats before.

He laughs, pours wine, and soon we’re eating—something involving lemon and garlic and a piece of fish that looks like it went to a very posh school. We talk, we laugh, we pretend this is just a normal date night in a normal house with no looming husband around.

And for a while, it works. I almost relax. Almost.

“So, where’s the hubby?” I can’t help asking.

“Oh, he’s out for most of the evening. Date night with Sam.”

“Date night.” I repeat, trying to sound casual but probably sounding like a man who just accidentally FaceTimed his boss from the loo.

Pete grins at my expression. “Yeah, they do that most weeks. Go for dinner, a show, complain about the price of cocktails—domestic bliss.”

“Cool. Very modern. Very… Channel 4 documentary,” I say, spearing a piece of lemony fish like it’s offended me personally.

He laughs, the sound warm and low, and reaches for the wine bottle. “We aim for Channel 4. But most often we lean more into Channel 5.”

“Ah, bit filthier, and with more adverts.”

“Exactly. But with a Jane McDonald soundtrack.”

“Ah, yes,” I nod. “So, we have the house to ourselves tonight?” I ask.

“Well, not all night. They’ll be back at some point.”

Hooray.

“And will they join us?”

“For a nightcap? Yeah, I’d imagine so.” Pete looks at me gauging my reaction to this news.

“And when you say ‘nightcap’?”

“Relax. I mean a glass of wine, not an orgy.”

I nearly choke. “Was that an option? Because I’m definitely underdressed.”

“You’d be fine,” he teases, topping up my glass. “You’d look great at an orgy.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say, heat creeping up my neck, “but I’m the kind of person who panics about whether to take my shoes off in other people’s houses. I don’t think I’d thrive in a no-clothes environment.”

“Well, we’re not exactly an orgy kind of household, so you can relax,” he says softly, leaving his foot there, a warm line of pressure against my ankle.

I exhale, forcing a laugh. “Relaxing is not my default setting. I am an anxious man powered by coffee and worst-case scenarios.”

“I’ve noticed,” he says, eyes glinting, “you get this little furrow right here whenever you’re overthinking.”

Before I can respond, he leans forward and, with one finger, smooths the little crease between my brows.

“Better,” he murmurs.

“I do not furrow,” I say, furrowing. It feels nice to have him touch me.

“You do,” he says, withdrawing his hand but not his gaze.

I pick up my wine. “I mean, yes, I was worrying about meeting James. And also about whether my cat is at home plotting my death for not feeding him on time.”

Pete laughs, and this time he reaches over properly, covering my hand where it rests on the table. His thumb rubs absent circles over my skin as he says, “Tom, you are a grade A overthinker.”

“I just—” I pause, staring at our hands. “I’m good at overthinking. Like, Olympic-level. Give me a situation and I will catastrophise it until it looks like an episode of EastEnders.”

“That must be exhausting.”

“It is. But—” I swallow, looking up at him, “—it’s also because I care.

About getting things right. About not wasting time with the wrong people.

When my dad died, it sort of… flipped a switch.

Made me realise how much I’d been sitting on my hands, waiting for life to feel meaningful instead of doing something about it. ”

Pete’s expression shifts, the teasing gone. He squeezes my hand once, firmly. “Yeah. I get that.”

“You do?”

He nods. “I had a rough childhood. Dad was… not someone you’d call father of the year. Noise, booze, shouting. Mum left early on. It makes you crave stability. Real connection. People who actually want to stick around.”

The words hang between us, soft as the candlelight, and suddenly I’m very aware of how close we’re sitting. His knee is still pressed to mine. His hand is still over mine.

“That’s exactly it,” I say, and my voice comes out quieter than I meant.

Pete doesn’t say anything—just studies me for a beat, then smiles like he’s made a decision. He slides his thumb across my knuckles one last time before withdrawing his hand and reaching for the wine.

“More?” he asks, but his voice has gone low, warm.

I nod, because speech is suddenly difficult.

Pete tops up my wine glass like he’s on commission, and I watch the liquid swirl, pretending I’m the kind of person who knows how to appreciate the legs on a Pinot.

“So,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows, smiling in that way that makes me feel like we’re sharing a secret, “are we going to talk about how we’re both tragic clichés? Or just drink until it stops hurting?”

I snort. “Define tragic cliché.”

“You,” he points at me with his fork, “are a walking, talking Richard Curtis movie. Lonely Bristol gay who buys posh bread, has a cat with emotional issues, and sighs at sunsets. And me—well, I’m…

” he gestures vaguely at himself. “I’m a man who went no-contact with both parents since my twenties and spent the next decade trying to convince my therapist I don’t have daddy issues. We’re textbook.”

It makes me laugh, but not just because it’s funny — because it’s so… easy. “You make it sound like we’re doomed.”

“No,” Pete says softly, shaking his head. “I think it means we’re two people who actually get how much this matters.”

Something shifts in me then. The wine doesn’t feel so sharp on my tongue.

I pick at my food, trying to find the right words. “After my dad died, I… I thought I’d be devastated. And I was. But not in the way people expect. I didn’t lose him — because we never had a relationship in the first place. We mainly just talked about whether my car needed another MOT yet or not.”

Pete nods as I continue. “I think the saddest thing was the realisation that we would never have a real connection.”

I swirl my wine, watch it catch the candlelight. “Maybe I should have tried harder, maybe he should have, I don’t know. But it’s made me realise how much I value real connections and how rare they can be.”

“I agree,” Pete says softly. “Connections are worth exploring, at the very least.”

“They are,” I nod. “And sometimes they work out… and sometimes they don’t.”

I take a breath. I can feel it coming, that tug in my chest that says I’m about to say something I probably shouldn’t.

“I told you about my friend, Guy, before,” I say carefully.

Pete nods. “The one you used to work with?”

“Yeah.” I set my fork down. “It wasn’t just friendship. Not really. We… had a thing.”

Pete doesn’t look shocked, just quietly attentive. His gaze is soft but unwavering, which is somehow worse than judgment.

“He was married,” I add quickly, because apparently I’m on a roll.

“We started as friends, lunch breaks, long walks, just talking. And then one day it wasn’t just talking.

We were sleeping together. It went on for months and months.

I hated myself for it. I used to tell myself I was different from people who cheat, and then there I was… cheating.”

“This was when you were with Daniel?”

I nod.

Pete tilts his head, his expression unreadable. “That must have been… complicated.”

“That’s one word for it,” I say with a weak laugh.

“It’s not an excuse, but things were impossible between Daniel and I.

Every day was a struggle, the mind games, the arguments.

He had debts, big ones, from gambling, that weren’t going away.

And Guy was just a welcome relief from all that. Someone who made me smile.”

My head hangs as I continue. “But I just felt like a hypocrite. Cheating has always been a hard no. I’ve always been cynical about open relationships, thought they were just cheating with extra admin.

But, although it ended suddenly, Guy made me realise that connections don’t always follow rules.

And that maybe… maybe the rules I grew up with aren’t the only ones that can work. ”

Pete gives me a small, kind smile. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me, you know.”

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “I just… The point is, although it didn’t work out, I still believe connections are worth exploring. Even if they hurt. Even if they’re complicated. Because sometimes, sometimes they can lead to something amazing.”

Pete’s grin softens into something warm, steady. “I think so too. When you find them, they’re worth fighting for.”

I place my hand over his. “Indeed.”

“Thank you for telling me about Guy. And your Dad.”

“That’s okay. I’m glad you’re getting to know me. I want to know you in the same way.”

Pete smiles like he’s been there, because maybe he has. “My dad…” He hesitates, twirling the stem of his glass. “He was just… absent. No contact. No apologies. No explanations.”

I swallow hard, feeling that ache of recognition. “So, you know that feeling. That hole where something should be. That sense of being on your own, even when you’re not.”

He meets my eyes, and for a moment it’s just us and the soft hum of the fridge.

“Exactly. Which is why I think we both take this”—he gestures between us—“seriously. We don’t want casual.

We don’t want disposable. We want something that feels real, because we’ve already lived with things that weren’t. ”

My chest tightens in a way that’s both painful and… warm. “God, you make me sound like some hopeless romantic.”

“You are a hopeless romantic,” he teases, grinning. “But so am I. I think that’s why this works.”

And just like that, I’m smiling into my glass like an idiot, because he’s right. This does work. Despite the awkward dinners, the James-shaped cloud hovering over everything, despite the red flags waving like it’s a bank holiday parade — this is the first time in years I’ve felt understood.

“I’m really glad you asked me to stay tonight,” I say finally.

Pete’s grin softens into something warmer. “Me too.”

For a long moment, we just sit there, grinning at each other like teenagers with a crush, and for once I stop overthinking everything.

We end up on the sofa after dinner, the remains of dessert abandoned on the table because apparently, we are adults who can just leave dishes for Future Us to resent.

Pete puts on some music — low, jazzy, the kind of thing that makes you feel cooler by association — and we curl up together, his arm slung across my shoulders like it lives there.

It’s stupid how comfortable this feels. Like my entire body has been holding its breath all day and finally lets go.