Chapter 19
Chloe
It has been a day.
Not in the mildly inconvenient, tea-will-sort-this sense. In the everything-happened-at-once-and-my-nervous-system-is-still-vibrating sense.
The editorial ran.
Printed. Online. Shared. Commented on. Supported in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
The Gazette’s social media has been busy and, astonishingly, mostly kind.
Messages from women I don’t know telling me they’re glad someone said it.
That they’ve felt it too. I read those slowly, carefully, like they might dissolve if I rush.
Marie-Louise hasn’t said much since. Which from her feels deliberate rather than ominous. I’ll take deliberate.
Then there was the radio interview.
I hadn’t known it was happening until the air in the newsroom changed.
Raised voices behind glass. Marie-Louise’s face tightening, then shifting, like someone realising they’ve just lost control of a narrative.
I only found out later that Rupert had called and demanded she made sure I heard the interview.
And she did. She made the office manager put the radio on for the whole newsroom to hear.
Tom’s voice.
Calm. Thoughtful. Refusing to perform. Refusing to use me as leverage. Talking about the work, not the woman. Drawing a line and standing on the right side of it without ever saying sorry for us.
I did not listen like a journalist. I listened like a person trying very hard not to cry in public.
It was a lot.
Now I’m home. Shoes kicked off. Bra flung over the back of a chair with intent. The flat is quiet in that way that only comes after a loud emotional day. I’m folding laundry because it is something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve refreshing Twitter.
Hadrian watches from his rock, eyes following my every move.
“I know,” I tell him. “I don’t understand it either.”
He flicks his tongue.
“That’s not helpful.”
I keep waiting for my phone to buzz.
Something simple. Something neutral. You okay. Something that would give me a shape to respond to.
It doesn’t.
And I don’t text him either, because what do you say after a man goes on local radio and refuses to share private thoughts in public out of respect.
Thanks for being decent feels inadequate. That meant a lot feels exposed. Silence, for now, feels safer.
The adrenaline has finally drained away, leaving something heavier behind. Uncertainty. Not fear exactly. Just the sense of standing on ground that hasn’t quite settled yet.
I fold the last T-shirt and stack it neatly.
“Well,” I tell Hadrian. “This is where we are.”
He blinks slowly.
“I agree,” I say. “Deeply unhelpful.”
I genuinely have no idea what happens next.
The doorbell rings.
I stare at it for a full second, because my life has recently developed a habit of escalating without warning.
Hadrian doesn’t so much as twitch. Curled on his rock, one foot hanging off the edge, mouth slightly open like a creature deeply committed to rest.
I cross the flat and press the intercom.
“Yes,” I say.
“It’s Tom,” his voice comes back. Careful. Tentative. “I was wondering if I could come up. No pressure at all. I can also leave immediately and pretend this was a very confident walk.”
I close my eyes. Of course it’s him.
“Give me a second,” I say.
I rest my forehead against the wall. One breath. Then another. I am a grown woman. I can answer my own door. I can face this infuriatingly amazing man.
I buzz Tom in.
Footsteps on the stairs. Measured. Polite. A man very aware he is entering emotional territory without a map.
There’s a knock.
I open the door.
He stands there holding a small paper bag like it contains either contraband or regret.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
He steps inside, pauses, scans the flat, the minor chaos, the lizard-shaped ornament currently masquerading as a living being, then holds the bag out.
“What’s that,” I ask.
“Cockroaches.”
I blink.
“For Hadrian,” he adds quickly. “Not from my restaurant. Absolutely not from my restaurant. These are shop-bought. Sealed. Reputable.”
I glance at Hadrian.
He does not stir. One eyelid remains firmly closed. A tiny toe flexes, then relaxes again.
“I thought,” Tom continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “that my standing with your housemate might still be… fragile. And I wanted to improve it.”
I take the bag.
“You brought my gecko a bribe.”
“Yes,” he says. “A goodwill gesture.”
I set the paper bag down next to the vivarium like it’s not the most surreal peace offering of my adult life.
“Do you want tea,” I ask, because apparently this is who I am now. A woman who responds to emotional upheaval with kettles.
“I would love tea,” he says.
I fill the kettle. Flick the switch. The familiar click feels grounding.
When I head back to the living room, Hadrian shifts. One eye opens. He considers the room. Decides it is not worth full consciousness yet.
Tom watches him with wary respect.
“So,” he says carefully. “Do I… present them. Or do we wait.”
“We wait,” I say. “He hates desperation.”
He nods, takes it in, then smiles. We stand there for a moment, watching each other, careful and quiet.
The kettle boils, mercifully, and I retreat to the kitchen. I make the tea, ditch the bag, then bring the mug back to him. He cups it in both hands, like he’s cold, though it isn’t that kind of cold.
We stand there for a moment, side by side, steam rising between us.
“Rough day,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Yours.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
Silence settles. Not awkward. Just… quiet.
I scoop the cockroaches into Hadrian’s dish. Place it back carefully. Step away.
Hadrian opens both eyes now. Stretches one leg. Very slowly. Like he has all the time in the world.
Tom holds his breath.
Hadrian flicks his tongue. Once. Then again. He leans forward and eats one.
Tom exhales.
“He accepts your bribe,” I say.
He smiles. Small. Real.
“Good,” he says. “I was hoping to start on the right foot.”
We sip our tea. And for the first time all day, my shoulders drop.
We speak at the same time.
“I don’t want this to just be—”
“I’ve been thinking that maybe—”
We both stop.
He huffs out a laugh. I do the same, the sound soft and slightly disbelieving.
“Sorry,” he says.
“No, you go,” I reply, immediately.
We hesitate again. It’s ridiculous and oddly reassuring.
“I was going to say,” he starts, eyes on his mug like it might give him stage directions, “that I know you weren’t looking for anything. And I’m not trying to persuade you into a version of your life you’ve already decided against. But… I’d like to see where this goes. Carefully. If you do.”
My chest tightens. Not with fear. With recognition.
“I was going to say,” I reply slowly, “that I’m very good at liking people until they want something from me. And I’ve been burnt enough times to know I don’t bounce back quickly anymore.”
He nods. Doesn’t interrupt. That matters.
“I don’t want a whirlwind,” I continue. “Or a grand plan. Or expectations I didn’t sign up for. I want something that survives boredom. And bad moods. And me panicking that I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
He finally looks up.
“That,” he says quietly, “sounds… achievable.”
Silence settles again. Softer this time. Less charged. More honest.
Hadrian chews thoughtfully, entirely unconcerned with our emotional milestones.
“So,” I say, because apparently I am still me, “we’re agreeing to try without promising to be miraculous.”
He lifts an eyebrow, that familiar, infuriatingly attractive expression.
“Well,” he says, “I feel it would be rude to disappoint the gecko after all this effort.”
Hadrian crunches again, unmoved by responsibility.
“I knew it,” I say. “You secretly just want to be close to Hadrian.”
“I really, really don’t,” he replies. “But I’m willing to accept that I have to share you with him.”
I snort. He smiles. The quiet one. The one that doesn’t perform.
“So,” he says lightly, “we take it slowly. Ordinary. No pretending this fixes everything.”
“No pretending,” I agree. “No pressure.”
“No dramatic declarations.”
“Absolutely none.”
We look at each other for a beat too long.
Then he steps closer, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to.
I don’t.
The kiss is gentle. Brief. Not a promise. More an understanding.
The kind that says we’ll see.
When we pull back, he rests his forehead against mine.
“One rule,” I say.
He groans softly. “Already.”
“No sex in cars,” I continue. “Ever.”
He blinks. “That seems oddly specific.”
“I don’t trust the Cumbria Times not to be hiding in a hedge.”
He laughs, full and easy, and kisses me once more, quick and smiling.
“Deal,” he says. “Beds only. Preferably indoors.”
“And maybe,” I add, because apparently I am committed to testing boundaries today, “some kitchens. Possibly bathrooms.”
He considers this with mock seriousness. “I think that’s reasonable.”
“Really.”
“All over the house,” he says. “Just not in public.”
“Excellent,” I say. “I like a man with priorities.”
He chuckles and then he pulls me into him.
Not urgent. Not possessive. Just arms around me, solid and warm, his chin resting against my hair like it belongs there.
And that’s when it hits.
The relief. The exhaustion. The fact that I didn’t break. The fact that he showed up anyway. The fact that this is no longer theoretical or whispered or hidden behind editorials and radio interviews.
All of it arrives at once, heavy and bright and slightly terrifying.
I press my face into his jumper and breathe him in, grounding myself in wool and warmth and the utterly unremarkable miracle of being held.
He tightens his arms just a fraction, like he can feel it.
“It’s a lot,” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I manage. “But… good.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.
We stand there in my living room while Hadrian finishes his dinner with aggressive enthusiasm, the world outside carrying on as usual.
Inside, I let myself feel it.
All of it.