Chapter 12
Tom
Dinner is quiet in the best possible way.
Not charged. Not awkward. Just steady. She eats with real appetite, like someone whose body has finally been given something it can use. I notice the dark circles under her eyes, the way she moves carefully, conserving energy, every shift measured.
When I reach for the dessert, she shakes her head.
“Later,” she says. “I’ll eat it. Just not now.”
I nod and put it away. No discussion. No follow-up. It’s not a moment that needs negotiating.
“How are you?” I ask.
Not the social version. The real one.
She hesitates, then exhales.
“Not great,” she admits. “The cramps are ridiculous this time.”
I stand before I properly think it through.
“Come here,” I say.
She protests out of habit.
“I’m fine.”
“I know,” I reply. “Humour me.”
I guide her to the sofa, careful not to rush her. She lowers herself with a tired sound that makes something in my chest tighten. I sit behind her, close but not crowding, and wait.
She leans back against me on her own. That’s when it really lands how worn she is.
It’s strange, objectively, that we’re here like this. We barely know each other. A review. An argument. Messages. A gecko. And now she’s leaning back against me in her own flat, easy and familiar, like we’ve done this a hundred times.
And yet it doesn’t feel impulsive.
It feels natural.
I rest my hand on her lower belly and start slow, steady circles. Nothing clever. Nothing charged. Just pressure and rhythm.
She stiffens slightly.
“What are you doing?”
“This helped my ex-wife,” I say evenly. “She had awful period pain. Belly rubs were the only thing that made a difference.”
“Oh,” she says. Then, more carefully, “Your ex-wife.”
“Yes.”
“You’re divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Is this some tragic lost-love situation you still emotional work through?”
“No,” I say dryly. “It really isn’t.”
I keep the movement slow and consistent.
“It was a car crash of a marriage,” I add. “We got married because we lusted after each other and thought that would be enough.”
It wasn’t.
“I was running a successful restaurant in Manchester,” I say. “She worked with me. I thought we were building something together.”
Chloe stays quiet, listening without interruption.
“She was actually building an exit plan,” I say. “With my money.”
I feel her body tense slightly. I don’t stop.
“When we divorced, her lawyer was very good,” I continue. “Mine was enthusiastic. And sleeping with her.”
She winces. “Fuck.”
“She took the restaurant. And most of my savings. I kept my knives and some dignity.”
She leans back against me more fully without thinking, and I register it with absolute clarity.
“That’s awful,” she says softly.
“It was instructive,” I reply. “I don’t recommend it.”
Her breathing slows. The tension eases under my hand.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“For the food,” I say lightly.
“And this.”
I don’t answer. I just keep the circles slow and deliberate.
“Was there ever anyone for you?”
She hums thoughtfully. “Who cleaned me out and ruined my life?”
I snort before I can stop myself.
“No,” I say. “Someone who counted. A significant other.”
She considers it, body heavy against mine.
“There were others,” she says. “None particularly significant. There was one I thought might be.”
My hand keeps moving, steady, giving her space to decide how much she wants to say.
“I met him travelling,” she continues. “He lived in Dubai. Expat. We were very enthusiastic about each other. I moved there to give it a proper go.”
“And.”
“And it didn’t,” she says simply. “Turns out enthusiasm in your twenties doesn’t make up for not actually being emotionally compatible.”
I nod. That tracks. Too well.
We sit in silence for a bit. Comfortable. Warm. The sort of quiet you don’t rush to fill.
Then I murmur, “Hadrian is watching me.”
She laughs, the sound sudden and bright. “You’re imagining it.”
“I am not,” I say. “I can feel the judgement.”
“He does not judge.”
“He absolutely does.”
She just hums, not disagreeing. Her warmth seeps into me, steady and grounding, making me relax, making me feel like I belong right here, and that’s a thought I am not allowed.
“Are the rubs helping?” I ask.
She hesitates. “They are. And it is a miracle. I’ve only ever known one thing that was guaranteed to help.”
I glance down at her. “And what’s that?”
She goes very still. “I’m not telling you.”
“Why?”
“It is mortifying.”
“Well now you definitely have to tell me.”
“Absolutely not,” she protests, shifting forward and slipping out of my arms. The loss of her weight against me is immediate and unwelcome.
“Yes, you do,” I say, grinning despite myself, and before I think better of it, I reach out, fingers skittering lightly at her sides.
She yelps. “No. Don’t. Absolutely do not.”
She tries to squirm away and I let her go the moment I register it, hands up in surrender.
“Why,” I ask, amused.
“Because,” she says, breathless now, “this could cause a crimson flood.”
I freeze. “A what?”
She sighs. “Sneezing. Coughing. Excessive laughing. Sometimes it feels like the Red Sea parting.”
I stare at the wall, recalibrating my understanding of the human body.
“And now,” she adds, mortified, “I am oversharing again. I don’t understand why I keep doing this.”
“I don’t mind,” I say honestly. “Maybe you feel comfortable with me.”
She scoffs. “Slander.”
I press again, gently this time. Not teasing. Just curious.
“Come on,” I say quietly. “You can tell me. What is that guaranteed cure for period pain?”
She goes very still. Then exhales, long and resigned, like someone stepping off a ledge.
“…Sex,” she says.
I blink once.
She rushes on, cheeks flushing. “Not in a dramatic way. I just… I get very horny on my period. It’s a thing.
And orgasms actually help with the cramps.
Medically. I read it somewhere. And sometimes I help myself because obviously, but then there’s the mess and this sentence has gone on far too long and I should stop talking now. ”
She stops abruptly, like she’s run into a wall.
I look away, not because I’m shocked, but because I’m very aware this is a moment that needs steadiness, not reaction.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I say carefully. “Nothing at all.”
She groans and drops her face into her hands. “Why am I like this?”
I shift, decision settling quietly, and stand.
“Bathroom’s back there,” I say, nodding towards the bedroom door.
She looks up, frowning. “Why?”
“Just stay there,” I add, already moving. “I’ll be right back.”
Before she can argue, I disappear towards the bathroom.
The bathroom is functional and nothing more. I pause, realising it will not do.
I come back from the bedroom slower than I left it.
She looks up immediately. “What?”
“Your shower’s too small,” I say.
She frowns. “For what?”
I take a breath. This is either going to land or end everything.
“For pain relief,” I say carefully. “Sex. If you need it.”
Silence.
I hold my hands up slightly, instinctively, like I’m negotiating rather than proposing anything.
“Only if you want,” I add. “This is not me… pouncing. You said it helps with the cramps. If that’s true, and you want help, I can help. Purely practical.”
She stares at me.
I become acutely aware that this could be the moment I’ve spectacularly misjudged her, the room, the day, my entire personality.
“And you’re not,” she says slowly, “disgusted by the idea?”
“No,” I say, immediately. “Why would I be?”
She searches my face, suspicious. “At all.”
“I’m being honest,” I say. “I wouldn’t do oral. That’s a boundary. But otherwise, no. It’s sex. It’s bodies. It’s normal.”
She exhales, something easing in her shoulders.
“And the shower,” she says.
“Would keep things simple,” I reply. “Minimal mess. Less stress. Yours just isn’t built for two people with actual bodies.”
“That is an extremely specific observation.”
“I have strong opinions about showers,” I say. “This one would end in injury.”
She studies me again, head tilted, like she’s trying to work out where this is coming from.
I shift my weight, suddenly very aware of myself.
“For what it’s worth,” I add, quieter now, “I realise this might be a weird line to cross. If it is, say so and I’ll back off immediately. I’m not… asking because I can’t help myself.”
I meet her eyes.
She huffs out a breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “My shower’s too small anyway.”
“Yes,” I say carefully, relieved she’s still talking. “That was… part of my conclusion.”
She shakes her head. “You went to investigate my plumbing for this.”
“I did a brief risk assessment,” I say. “It failed.”
There’s a pause. Then, because I owe her clarity if nothing else, I add, “Mine isn’t.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“I mean, I have a big shower,” I continue, choosing each word with care, “and Rupert isn’t home. He’s staying at Glen's tonight.”
I stop there. No flourish. No pressure. Just information, laid out like facts on a table.
She watches me, colour rising in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look alarmed. She looks thoughtful. Measuring.
“You’ve really thought this through,” she says.
I give a small, helpless shrug. “You are in pain. I don’t like that.”
Another beat of silence stretches between us, charged but steady.
“And if I say no,” she asks.
“Then nothing happens,” I say immediately. “I’ll finish packing up the food, make sure you’re settled, and leave. No offence taken. No weirdness.”
She studies my face, clearly checking for cracks. Finding none.
“Hm,” she says.
That single sound lands heavier than a paragraph.
I stay where I am, hands loose at my sides, not moving an inch closer.
Whatever she decides, it has to be her decision.
And I am very aware, suddenly, that I have crossed into territory where good intentions are not enough unless I keep proving them.