Chapter 4
Mark
Ishouldn’t have asked.
That thought comes a beat too late to be useful.
I don’t do this. I don’t put things on the table without knowing what comes next. I don’t hand control of a situation to someone I met less than an hour ago and then sit back and wait to see what they do with it.
That’s not how I work.
And yet—
He’s still here.
Still sitting opposite me, turning the idea over like he’s trying to find the version of it that makes sense.
There isn’t one.
I knew that when I asked.
“This is a terrible idea,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re very comfortable with that.”
“I’m not fighting it.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his mouth.
“I don’t do things like this.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
That gets his attention. His gaze lifts, sharper now.
“Do you,” he says.
I hold it. Don’t soften it.
Because the truth is, I do.
Not in a way I can explain.
Not in a way that would make sense if I tried.
But I saw him. The way he sits just slightly outside of everything even when he’s in it. The way he listens like it matters. The way he pulls back just before something becomes too real.
And I know exactly what that looks like.
He’s leaving.
That’s the part I can explain.
In a few days, he’s gone. Different country, different life, whatever this could be cut off before it even starts.
I don’t want that.
I don’t even know what this is yet, but I know I don’t want it ending here, in a pub, with a conversation that never gets the chance to become anything else.
So I asked.
And now he’s deciding.
“I’m leaving on Wednesday,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to argue with that and can’t quite find the words.
There’s a long pause.
I don’t fill it.
Don’t push.
This only works if he steps into it himself.
And there’s a part of me—quiet, controlled, but there—that knows he might not.
That he might stand up, shake his head, walk out, and I’ll never see him again.
That should be enough to pull me back.
It isn’t.
“Fine,” he says.
Just that and my heart starts beating faster.
The impact is instant, clean and merciless.
I nod once. “All right.”
He holds my gaze, like he’s making sure I understand what that means.
“I’m not backing out halfway,” he says. “If I do this, I do it.”
“Good.”
“I mean it,” he says, but there’s no real heat in it. Just… nerves, maybe. “I don’t do half-measures.”
“Neither do I.”
That’s the first real flicker of something between us that isn’t just banter.
He lets out a breath that turns into a small, disbelieving laugh.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “I’ve actually said yes.”
Yeah.
He has.
“Right,” he says, pushing back his chair. “Let’s go before I remember who I am.”
Outside, the air hits cooler than it should.
He stops just beyond the door, like the shift from inside to outside has caught him off guard.
Or maybe it’s the fact that this is real now.
I give him the second.
Don’t move too close. Don’t reach for him.
Not yet.
He looks up and down the street, grounding himself.
Then at me.
“You’ve got a car?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“You can still walk away,” I offer.
He looks at me sharply. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t make this easier to back out of.”
“Okay,” I say.
We start walking.
It’s not far, but I don’t rush it.
Because I can feel it now.
The shift.
In the pub, there were distractions. Noise. Space to pretend this was just a conversation.
Out here, there’s nothing to hide behind.
Just him. Just me. Just the fact that we’ve both decided to step into something we don’t fully understand.
Our shoulders brush.
Accidental.
We both feel it.
He moves half an inch away—
then doesn’t go any further.
I don’t either.
We keep walking.
“You always do this?” he asks after a moment.
“No.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I saw you,” I say.
He glances at me. “That’s still not an explanation.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
He watches me for a second longer than necessary.
Like he’s trying to decide if that’s enough.
It is.
Because he’s still here.
Our hands brush.
Again.
This time neither of us moves away.
There’s a pause.
Small.
Fragile.
If either of us breaks it, it’s gone.
I don’t think.
I just turn my hand, let my fingers settle against his.
Give him the space to pull away but he doesn’t.
There’s a half-step where he stills completely.
Then his fingers close around mine.
Not tentative.
Not unsure.
Just… there.
That does something I wasn’t expecting.
Sharp. Immediate. Too much for something this small.
I keep my expression the same.
Don’t tighten my grip. Don’t react.
But I feel it.
The garage sits at the end of the next road.
I unlock it, push the door open, and step inside. The lights come on overhead, cutting through the dark.
He follows, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click.
Different space.
Smaller.
Closer.
No noise. No people. No way to pretend this isn’t exactly what it is.
He takes a few steps in, looking around.
“This is yours?”
“Yeah.”
He moves slowly, taking it in. The car. The tools. The space.
“It suits you,” he says.
I watch him instead of answering.
There’s something about him here, out of place in a way that makes him stand out even more.
He turns back to me.
I take a step closer.
His eyes drop briefly to my mouth.
Back up.
A small breath leaves him.
“This is happening, then.”
Not a question.
I hold his gaze.
“Yeah.”
He gives the faintest nod.
We’re close now.
Close enough that I can see the shift in his expression. The point where the humour drops off and something else takes over.
Before I can say anything else he closes the distance.
And I meet him there.
His mouth is warm when it finds mine.
Softer than I expected, but there’s weight behind it. Intention. Like he’s been holding this back for just long enough to be sure.
For a second it stays there. A test. A question.
Then it shifts.
His hand comes up, catching in the front of my shirt, and that’s it. Whatever line was still there disappears. I step into him, close the space, my hand settling at his waist, pulling him in.
He exhales against my mouth, and I feel it.
Not just the breath. The reaction.
I kiss him again, slower this time, deeper, letting it build instead of rushing it.
There’s a slight drag where our mouths meet, the soft scrape of his goatee against my skin, rough enough to register, not enough to distract. It grounds it. Makes it real in a way that’s hard to ignore.
Philip makes a small sound at the back of his throat, something between a breath and a reaction, and it pulls something sharper out of me.
His grip tightens in my shirt.
I answer it without thinking, my hand shifting at his side, drawing him closer until there’s no space left between us at all.
He leans into it.
Fully now.
No hesitation left.
The kiss deepens again, less controlled, more instinct. My cock hardens. Heat builds quickly, the kind that makes everything else fall away without asking permission.
It’s not just physical.
That part’s easy.
This isn’t.
This is immediate. Unfiltered. Like we’ve skipped something and landed somewhere we weren’t supposed to get to yet.
He tilts his head slightly, changes the angle, and the scrape of his goatee hits differently this time, sharper along my jaw, and it sends bolts of energy to my dick.
I tighten my grip without meaning to.
He doesn’t pull back.
If anything, he presses closer.
There’s a point where it could tip too far, too fast.
I catch it.
Slow it just enough.
Not breaking the kiss. Just pulling it back a fraction, giving us space to breathe.
His forehead drops briefly against mine, breath uneven, mouth still too close to ignore.
“Still a terrible idea,” he murmurs.
“Good.”
There’s the ghost of a smile against my lips.
My forehead rests against his for a second longer than it needs to.
Neither of us moves.
I can still feel the imprint of him. The heat of his mouth, the rough brush of his goatee along my jaw, the way he didn’t hesitate once he’d decided.
That’s the part that sticks.
Not the kiss.
The way he committed to it.
He exhales, then pulls back properly this time, running a hand through his hair like he needs to reset.
“Right,” he says.
His voice is a fraction off. Not much. Just enough.
“Right,” I echo.
We don’t move straight away.
He’s still close. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him even without touching. Close enough that if either of us leans in, we’re right back where we were.
He doesn’t.
Neither do I.
Not this time.
He clears his throat, stepping back first, like he’s forcing the moment to break before it loops into something else.
“We should… go,” he says.
“Yeah.”
I grab the keys and head for the car. He follows, a step behind this time, quieter now, like he’s still catching up with what just happened.
I open the passenger door for him.
He pauses for half a second, like he’s registering that, then gets in without comment.
I walk around to the driver’s side and slide in, the space suddenly smaller, contained again in a different way.
The engine turns over, low and steady.
Neither of us speaks.
I pull the car forward slowly, guiding it out of the garage. The headlights cut across the dark, catching briefly on metal shutters and concrete before we roll out into the open.
I stop just outside, leave the engine running, and get out to pull the door down.
The metal rattles as it shuts, louder than it should be in the quiet.
When I get back in, he’s watching me.
Not subtly.
Just… watching.
“What,” I say.
He shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”
I don’t believe that for a second.
I pull away from the kerb, the garage disappearing behind us as we turn onto the road.
The silence settles again.
“I kissed you,” he says after a moment.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t hesitate.”
I glance at him briefly. “Did you want me to?”
“No,” he says quickly. Then, quieter, “No.”
He leans back, dragging a hand over his face.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he suddenly exclaims.
I glance over. “What?”
He sits up, turning towards me, expression tightening.
“I forgot Heath.”
I frown. “Who’s Heath.”
“My hamster.”
I blink.
“Your hamster’s called Heath.”
“Yes.”
I huff out a breath. “That’s a very serious name for a hamster.”
“It’s short for Hamster Heath from Hampstead Heath,” he says, like that explains everything.
“That's actually adorable,” I chuckle.
“It suits him,” Philip adds defensively.
“I’m sure it does.”
There’s a beat.
“He’s at home,” Philip says, suddenly more focused. “On his own.”
“And that’s a problem.”
“Yes,” he says, sharper now. “That’s a problem. He doesn’t like being left.”
“How much does he not like it.”
“He can cope for a few hours. If I leave him for the weekend, he’ll shit himself," Philip sighs.
I snort. “Right.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “Full on. Stress-induced. Everywhere. It’s a whole situation.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t just leave him there knowing that’s what’s going to happen.”
I nod once. “Then we go get him.”
He stops.
“You’re not serious.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve just met me.”
“Yeah.”
“And your solution to ‘my hamster shits himself when he’s stressed’ is ‘bring him along.’”
“He won’t be on his own this way.”
There’s a beat.
Then it hits both of us.
He laughs first.
Not polite. Not controlled. Head tipping back slightly, hand dragging through his hair like he can’t quite believe what’s coming out of his own mouth.
I follow a second later.
Not because it’s absurd, though it is.
Because it’s him.
Because somehow this—this entire situation—feels exactly as ridiculous as it should, and still not enough to stop.
“This is—” he starts, still laughing, then shakes his head. “This is completely insane.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t even like people knowing I have a hamster,” he adds. “It raises too many questions.”
“Seems like a missed opportunity.”
“For what.”
“Filtering out the hamster haters.”
He snorts at that, the laugh still sitting under his breath.
“You’re serious.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t even hesitate.”
I shrug slightly. “He comes with you.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to work out what sits under that but doesn’t quite push it.
Instead, he exhales, shaking his head again.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he mutters. “I’m about to introduce you to my hamster.”
“I’ll behave.”
“Promise?”
“Probably not.”
That gets another laugh out of him.
Quieter this time.
I hold his gaze for a beat.
“Honestly,” I say, a small smile pulling at my mouth, “I’d rather rescue an anxiety-riddled hamster than deal with the alternative.”
He frowns slightly. “Which is?”
I don’t look away.
“Having to say goodbye to you tonight.”
He stills for half a second, like he didn’t expect me to be so honest.
Then he exhales, something softer breaking through.
“Right,” he says quietly.
Not a joke this time.
Just… acceptance.
He nods once, like that settles it.
“We get Heath,” he says.
“We get Heath.”
Definitely not how I saw my evening go.