Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Owen glanced at the clock.
Five past five.
Matt had packed away his tools three minutes earlier, wished him a good evening, and disappeared through the side gate.
Again.
Owen frowned.
Something was different.
The day after the party, Matt had left earlier than usual. Owen hadn’t thought much of it. The dissertation was nearing its deadline, and to be fair, there wasn’t a great deal left to do in the garden.
The following afternoon, Owen had wandered outside with two mugs of coffee.
Matt had already gone.
Wednesday had followed much the same pattern. Matt arrived at nine, worked steadily all morning, ate lunch, worked all afternoon, then packed everything away and headed home.
Thursday was a repeat.
Friday had been a no-show.
Owen turned every minute over in his head, searching for an answer to explain the routine they’d suddenly slipped into.
There wasn’t one.
It wasn’t as though Matt had become withdrawn. He still smiled, laughed, took the mickey out of Owen for buying plants without once thinking whether they’d fit in the garden. Working alongside him felt as easy as ever.
But each time five o’clock arrived, Matt left. No lingering, no last-minute chats. No, Fancy a coffee? No, Come and have a look at this.
Just “See you tomorrow.”
Owen missed the conversations. He missed Matt’s easy laughter, the way he somehow filled every silence without ever seeming to notice he was doing it.
He leaned against the kitchen worktop and folded his arms.
Did I push him too fast?
Was the party too much?
Did I ask more of him than he was ready for?
His mind replayed the party. The sex. The morning after.
Nothing jarred. Nothing felt out of place.
But something has changed.
And if Matt was upset with him, why was he still smiling?
More than once that week he’d caught himself reaching for his phone before stopping. He didn’t want to crowd Matt.
If he needs a little space, then he can have it.
Even so, the whole thing puzzled the hell out of him.
He’d wandered into the kitchen that morning and reached automatically for a second mug before remembering there was nobody to drink from it.
Yesterday he’d spotted an unfamiliar plant pushing through one of the borders. His first thought had been, Matt will know what that is.
Then he’d remembered Matt had already gone home.
This is ridiculous. He only lives next door.
And yet those little absences were beginning to leave surprisingly large holes in Owen’s day.
He couldn’t let things drift like this. Matt looked exhausted. Every conversation lately seemed to circle back to the dissertation.
Owen froze.
Perhaps that’s all it is. Maybe the poor guy simply needs a break.
When the idea came to him, he smiled.
Perfect. Exactly what Matt needed.
Owen had some arranging to do.
Matt sat in the conservatory, his laptop open, books scattered everywhere.
The chapter on vulnerability was Doing. His. Head. In.
Perhaps that was fitting.
It was arguably the biggest theme of his dissertation, asking questions that had followed male characters through decades of cinema. Which men were allowed to cry? Who got punished for showing weakness? Which men survived because they finally let someone in?
The issue wasn’t the subject matter.
The problem was that every time he read the word vulnerability, he thought of Owen, and his thoughts became an avalanche of statements that all pointed towards the same conclusion.
Owen doesn’t do relationships.
Owen loved Ben.
Owen has told me repeatedly that Ben was the love of his life.
Owen enjoys casual sex.
Owen has never suggested this is anything else.
I’m twenty-five.
Owen is fifty-two.
I fell in love.
That doesn’t mean he did.
Matt scrubbed a hand over his face. He wasn’t frightened of loving Owen.
He was terrified loving him changed nothing.
Because if Owen didn’t love him back, Matt was destined to become another chapter in an already extraordinary life.
He couldn’t bear that thought.
The dissertation had become an exercise in self-preservation. He told himself it wasn’t avoidance, but more a case of discipline, control.
Finish one thing before falling apart over another.
For four days he’d managed it.
Work.
Write.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Except it wasn’t working.
Every paragraph reminded him of Owen.
He caught himself typing Owen’s name instead of the academic he was quoting.
He smiled at memories of things Owen had said.
He found himself wondering whether Owen had remembered to water the new plants near the pergola.
His phone lay within reach. More than one evening during this week he’d picked it up. Opened Owen’s contact.
And every time he’d put it down again.
Don’t.
The hardest part wasn’t staying away. It was pretending he wanted to.
Leaving at five each afternoon had become an act of will. Every evening he caught the same faint flicker of surprise in Owen’s eyes before Owen smiled and wished him a good night.
Matt hated himself for that.
He wasn’t trying to push Owen away. He was trying to stop himself wanting more than Owen could ever give. And if he kept lingering, kept accepting another coffee, kept finding excuses to spend another hour with Owen…
He wasn’t sure he’d ever leave.
Matt stared at the blinking cursor. He hadn’t written a word in nearly ten minutes.
“Damn it.”
He looked out of the conservatory window, and his gaze drifted, almost of its own accord, towards Owen’s house.
Then he caught himself.
This isn’t helping.
He turned back to the screen. The cursor continued to blink.
“You’ve hardly moved in three hours.”
He jumped at the sound of Mum’s voice.
“I’m nearly finished.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“So?”
“I’ve been watching you. I think you’ve looked out of the window more than you’ve looked at your books.”
“I have not.”
She huffed. “Fine. You haven’t. But why would I say it otherwise?”
Matt dragged his gaze away from Owen’s house and back to the screen. “I need to get this finished.”
“I know.” She rested a hand on the back of his chair. “But you’re still not working.”
The doorbell rang, and she left him to answer it.
Matt stared at the blinking cursor.
Damn it. She isn’t wrong.
He caught the murmur of voices in the hallway. Then one of them laughed.
That’s Owen.
His pulse kicked, and for one ridiculous, hopeful second, every promise he’d made himself dissolved.
Don’t.
A moment later Mum reappeared. “You have a visitor.”
Matt turned.
His mum had already disappeared, leaving Owen leaning against the doorway, smiling as though nothing in the world had changed.
“I’ve come to kidnap you.”
Matt blinked. “What?”
“Well, not now. Tomorrow morning, early.” Owen’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve decided your dissertation is bad for your health.”
“I don’t have much more to do on it,” he protested.
“And it will still be there Monday morning.”
Matt stared at him. “Monday?”
“I’m taking you somewhere. And we’re staying there Saturday night, back here late Sunday.”
Matt gaped. “But staying where?”
“The Isle of Wight. I’ve already called Callum. I’ve booked us on an early ferry over there. On the bike. We’ll pick it up from Cyn’s first thing.” Owen cocked his head. “You remember that pub Callum mentioned? The Sleepy Dormouse Inn? We’re staying there.”
He frowned. “You’re already booked it?”
Owen seemed puzzled. “Of course.”
“But… you hadn’t even asked me at that point.”
He smirked. “And are you going to say no?”
“Well, no, but—”
“There’s no point going over there for just one day.
This way, we get the whole day, we have dinner, stay the night, have a great breakfast, do it all over again the next day, then come home Sunday night.
” He grinned. “As for why I booked it… I know exactly what happens if you don’t book in August. And while it’ll only be the first of the month, it’s also the Chale Show, so it’ll be busy.
” Owen’s eyes sparkled. “I wasn’t leaving that to chance. ”
He made it all sound so reasonable.
And it’ll be just the two of us.
For the first time all week, it became difficult to remember why he’d been trying so hard to keep his distance. In the past few days he’d convinced himself what had happened in the office had changed nothing. That waking up in Owen’s arms had simply been… waking up in Owen’s arms.
Yet here Owen was, planning a weekend away, booking a room before he’d even asked…
Wanting two whole days with him.
Eric’s words drifted back into his mind.
Maybe he will.
Matt closed his eyes for the briefest moment.
Don’t.
Don’t build castles out of a ferry booking.
Owen had always been generous with his time. Perhaps this was just another example of that.
Even so, the knot that had been sitting in Matt’s chest all week eased a little.
It was impossible not to smile.
Owen’s face lit up. “I’d like to show you the island. It was always a very special place for me.”
Matt held his gaze.
Owen wasn’t talking about beaches or ferry rides, but about somewhere that mattered. Somewhere he’d loved for years.
A place he wanted Matt to see.
Matt took a deep breath. “I’d love to go.”
Owen beamed. “Excellent.”
He closed the laptop. “What time do you want me to be ready?”
If Owen had suggested leaving that very minute, Matt wasn’t sure he’d have objected.
“We’re booked on the 08.00 ferry, and we need to be there half an hour before, so I’ll pick you up at 6.45.” Owen grinned. “I’ll have a travel mug filled with coffee for you.”
He laughed, and that knot in his chest all but dissolved. “I’ll be ready.”
He still didn’t know where any of this was leading.
He decided not to care.
The first few miles were terrifying.
Owen didn’t speed, but everything happened so much closer on a bike than it did in a car. The hedgerows seemed almost within touching distance, the road narrower than it had looked from behind a windscreen, every bend arriving quicker than Matt expected.
“Relax.” Owen’s voice crackled through the headset. “You’re fighting the bike.”
“I’m trying not to die.”
Owen laughed. “That’s usually my job.”
Matt loosened his grip on Owen’s hips by sheer force of will, and the machine answered immediately, feeling steadier beneath him.