Chapter 22
SAM
In the bathroom, Sam yanks his jeans back on, the zip catching for a second before sliding shut with a harsh rasp. His t-shirt is damp from the sweat still on his body, sticking to him, cold now.
He looks into the mirror, checking the red marks around his neck. He hopes they’re gone by the morning. He’s not really a turtleneck guy. He doesn’t want to have to explain away bruises again over brunch.
James’s bedroom light is off, door closed. Sam turns and pads down the hallway, bare feet silent against the polished wooden floor. The house is still, the kind of stillness that makes you feel like you shouldn’t breathe too loud.
He pulls on his trainers by the door, glances back toward the stairs.
No movement. Good.
Sam’s skin hums with restless electricity. He knows he won’t sleep tonight. He never can, not after nights like this. His body is wired, his brain buzzing, like someone’s turned all the dials up too high. He needs an outlet, a way to get the noise out before it eats him alive.
And then his eyes catch on Tom’s coat, hanging on the back of the chair by the door.
Tom.
What do we really know about Tom?
Sam slips a hand into the coat pocket, fingers brushing against metal. Keys. He pulls them out, holds them in his palm, feels their weight.
Things are good between him and James. But Pete. Pete is reckless. Always has been. Throwing himself into someone new without a second thought, without a second’s consideration about what it does to the rest of them.
He’s built something here — something good. It’s taken years to get this balance right. James can be… difficult, but Sam has learned how to keep him steady, how to keep the storm from breaking too often.
Pete, for all his chaos, brings warmth into this house, softens the edges, makes it feel less like a fortress.
Tom could ruin that.
Not necessarily because he wants to, but because that’s what strangers do. They bring chaos in their pockets; they leave mess in their wake.
Yes, Tom comes with his own benefits but are they worth it to risk the status quo.
Sam closes his fingers around the keys. If he’s going to protect what they have, he needs to know who Tom really is. Not the version Pete gushes about after three glasses of wine. Not the charming Tesco meet narrative.
The real Tom.
He shrugs on his jacket, slips out into the night. On the street outside, Sam presses the key until a car parked alongside the house beeps. Door open, Sam slides behind the wheel of Tom’s car. The Sat Nav pings awake, Tom’s home address saved in its memory. Sam smirks. People are so careless.
The roads are quiet, slick with rain, streetlights glinting off the tarmac like watchful eyes. Sam drums his fingers against the steering wheel as he drives, every bump and turn making his mind work faster.
He grew up with chaos. Group homes, temporary placements, foster parents who treated him like a guest they couldn’t wait to leave.
Every time he got comfortable, it ended.
Another bag packed, another move. He learned early on that stability wasn’t something you found—it was something you fought for.
Something you built with your own hands and guarded like treasure.
This house is the closest thing he’s ever had to a permanent address. And Tom? Tom is a risk. Sam isn’t about to watch it all go up in flames because Pete has a weakness for sad men with nice smiles.
He pulls up outside Tom’s place, kills the engine, and just sits there for a moment. The house is dark, quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.
Sam slips the key into the lock and turns it, slow and careful. The door opens with a faint creak that makes his skin prickle.
Inside, the house smells faintly of laundry powder and cat litter. It’s tidy, almost too tidy, like Tom lives here alone and hasn’t had anyone around to make a mess.
Sam walks inside, closes the door behind him, and listens.
Nothing.
Good.
He moves quickly, methodical, pulling the small case from his bag. Cameras. Tiny, wireless, easy to hide. He sets to work, moving through the house like a shadow, placing them in corners, above doorways, tucked onto bookshelves.
It’s not about spying, not really.
It’s about understanding.
About seeing the truth of someone when they think no one’s watching. People are always honest when they think they’re alone.
Halfway through, he hears something.
A noise — soft, low, from the kitchen maybe.
Sam freezes, hand slipping into his pocket, fingers closing around the knife he always carries. Just in case.
He takes a step forward, slow, quiet. Another noise — closer now. A shuffle.
Sam pushes the kitchen door open with the tip of the knife, muscles tensed—
And there’s a cat, sitting on the counter, blinking at him like he’s the one being rude.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes, lowering the knife. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, you little bastard.”
The cat yawns, hops down, and wanders out like it owns the place.
Sam exhales, shaky, and gets back to work.
By the time he’s finished, the cameras are live, transmitting. He can watch from anywhere now. Keep an eye on things. Keep control.
On his way out, he stops by the door and looks back over the living room, the sofa, the neatly stacked books on the coffee table. It all feels so personal, like stepping through someone’s head.
Tom doesn’t know it yet, but Sam is inside his life now.
Watching.