Chapter 5
Philip
Whitstable at night is quieter than I expect.
Not silent. There’s still the distant sound of water, the occasional car, something metallic shifting in the wind that I can’t quite place. But compared to London, it resembles a ghost town.
I step out of the car, gravel crunching underfoot, Heath’s carrier balanced carefully in my hand.
“This is you?” I ask as Mark unlocks the door.
“Yeah.”
I take in the house now that I’m standing in front of it. Low, clean lines. Wide windows. The sort of place that looks understated until you realise that understatement is doing quite a lot of heavy lifting.
“You’ve got a very weird definition of cottage,” I say.
“What would you call it?”
“It’s a swanky beach house, Mark.”
He glances at it, then back at me, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Get inside.”
Mark switches on the light, stepping aside as I move past him.
The space opens up immediately. Kitchen and living area in one long stretch, all white wood and clean edges softened with muted sea greens and blues.
There’s a calm to it. Not sterile. Not staged. Just… deliberate.
At the far end, a full glass front stretches across the back of the house.
Leading out onto what I assume is a patio.
Beyond that, darkness, broken only by the faint line of a lit footpath cutting through it.
The sea must be there, somewhere just past it, but at this time of night it’s more suggestion than fact.
To the side, narrow stairs lead up, tucked neatly against the wall, as if someone decided space should be used sensibly but still look good doing it.
I become aware, belatedly, that I’m standing in the middle of it, taking it all in like I’ve arrived for a viewing rather than… whatever this is.
Mark brushes past me, easy, carrying my bag like it weighs nothing. He sets it down beside the stairs.
I watch him for a second longer than necessary.
Then he turns back to me, gaze dropping briefly to the carrier in my hand.
“How’s Heath doing?” he asks.
I set Heath down on the kitchen island and pull the small blanket from the cage, fingers careful, already bracing for whatever state he’s worked himself into.
“Come on, mate,” I murmur, easing the material back.
For a second, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.
He’s not in his little wooden cave. Not tucked away, not hidden like he usually is when he’s unsettled.
He’s out. Fully out. Sitting in the middle of the wood shavings like he’s been caught mid-thought and has absolutely no idea what to do next.
That’s—
Not normal.
I lean in slightly, frowning, then see what the problem is.
“Oh, Heath,” I say softly.
There’s no delicate way to dress it up. He’s clearly been in his cave and panicked and shit himself in there. Like, poop galore. Enough that the cave is now… unusable. Which means he’s abandoned it entirely and now has nowhere to hide.
Brilliant.
I scoop him up gently, feeling the slight tremor running through him. He doesn’t resist, which is never a good sign.
“It’s all right,” I murmur, thumb brushing lightly along his side. “It’s fine. We’ll sort it.”
Behind me, Mark steps closer, quiet enough not to startle either of us.
“What’s going on?”
I glance at him, then back at Heath, then back at him again.
“He crapped himself.”
There’s a beat.
Then Mark huffs out a laugh he clearly wasn’t planning on.
I feel mine follow a second later, quieter, a bit helpless.
“He was in his cave and panicked,” I add. “So now the cave’s a write-off and he’s got nowhere to hide.”
Mark shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s rough.”
“It’s not his finest moment.”
“No,” he says. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
I adjust my grip on Heath, trying to shield him a bit from the open space, from the light, from everything that’s probably making this worse.
“He’s stressed,” I say, because I feel like that needs stating again.
“Yeah.”
I let out a breath, the last of the laugh fading as I look down at him.
“Do you have kitchen roll?” I ask. “And maybe a box or something he can hide in while I clean this out. All this light isn’t helping.”
Mark glances up at the ceiling, then back at me. “Hang on.”
He moves without fuss, crossing the room and switching off the main light. The change is immediate. The space softens, shadows settling instead of the harsh brightness pressing in.
He flicks on a couple of lamps instead. Warm, low light spreading through the room, catching on the pale wood, turning it from clean to comfortable.
Then there’s a soft click, and a moment later the fireplace hums to life, low flames catching behind glass.
I blink, my eyes drifting over of their own accord.
“Of course you have a remote fireplace,” I mutter.
He shrugs slightly, already halfway to the kitchen. “Came with the place.”
He starts opening cupboards, drawers, moving with easy familiarity. I watch him for a second, then look back down at Heath.
“It’s all right,” I murmur again, quieter now. “You’ve just had a bit of a moment. We all have those.”
He shifts slightly in my hands, still tense but not trying to escape.
I adjust my grip, cupping him a little more securely.
“You’ve picked a brilliant time for it,” I add under my breath. “Really excellent timing.”
Mark comes back with an armful of supplies. Kitchen roll, bin bags, something that looks like actual cleaning spray.
“Will this do?” he asks, setting it down beside me.
“Perfect. Thank you.”
He lingers for a second, then adds, “Didn’t have a box.”
“That’s fine. I’ll improvise.”
“I’ve got this, though.”
I look up.
He’s holding out a beanie. Dark grey, soft, worn enough to look like it’s actually comfortable.
I hesitate, glancing from the hat to Heath and back again.
“He might…” I trail off.
Mark follows the look, then meets my eyes.
“It’s fine,” he says. “If he has another accident, I’ll wash it.”
I hesitate for half a second longer because his easy certainty sends an entirely unreasonable flicker of excitement through me.
I give Heath’s little bottom one last wipe with the kitchen towel, take the beanie from Mark, pause for half a second, then lower Heath into it carefully.
He disappears into the soft fabric almost immediately, burrowing in like he’s been offered something he can trust. Only the faintest movement gives him away.
“Well,” I murmur. “That’s an improvement. Would you mind holding him whilst I clean this?” I’m worried if I put it down he’ll do a runner, poop all over Mark’s white wood and we end up trying to find a tiny hamster in a massive beach house instead of doing other… things.
Mark takes the beanie, instinctively cradling it against his chest, one hand curved lightly around it to keep it steady and support Heath.
It shouldn’t do anything.
It really shouldn’t.
And yet the sight of him standing there, holding my anxious, slightly traumatised hamster like it’s something worth protecting—
Right.
I turn back to the cage before my brain decides to make that into something bigger than it already is.
“Want a hand?” Mark asks.
I shake my head, already pulling out the worst of the soiled shavings with kitchen roll. “No, it’s fine. This is already… significantly more than you probably expected from a hook up.”
The words are out before I think too hard about them.
“Hey.” His voice is quiet. Close.
I look up.
Mark is right there now, one hand lifting, fingers settling lightly beneath my chin. Not forceful. Just enough to tip my gaze back to his.
“This isn’t just a hook up,” he says.
For a second, I don’t have anything to say to that.
Which is new.
His thumb brushes once, just at the edge of my jaw, and then he leans in.
The kiss is nothing like the one in the garage.
It’s softer.
Slower.
Like he’s not trying to prove anything, just… confirm it.
I feel it before I can think about it, that quiet, steady pull tightening somewhere low in my chest. My hand stills mid-movement, kitchen roll forgotten completely as I lean into it without meaning to.
It only lasts a moment.
A breath, maybe two.
Then he pulls back, not far, just enough that I can see his expression again.
I’m aware, suddenly, that I’m staring at him.
That my heart is doing something slightly unreasonable for the situation.
That I have absolutely no idea how to categorise any of this anymore.
I clear my throat, turning back to the cage before I say something deeply unhelpful.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Right. Let’s… deal with this.”
I try to focus on the job at hand.
Out with the ruined shavings. Kitchen roll lining the base for now. The wooden cave gets a wiping down, then a more thorough clean, rinsed carefully at the sink. It’ll need to dry, which is less than ideal, but it’s better than putting it back as it was.
Mark stays nearby, quiet, not hovering, just… present.
I’m aware of him in a way that feels disproportionate.
Of the way he’s still holding the beanie. Of the fact that he hasn’t made a joke, hasn’t made light of any of this beyond that first laugh.
Of the way he said this isn’t a hook up like it wasn’t even up for debate.
I set the cave aside, then reach into my bag and pull out the small pack of fresh wood shavings I’d brought with me.
Mark notices. “You came prepared.”
“I was worried this might happen,” I admit. “He doesn’t travel well.”
“Clearly.”
We both chuckle, because honestly, what else are you supposed to do with this level of absurdity?
I refill the cage, spreading the shavings evenly, rebuilding something that looks vaguely like a safe space again.
The cave will have to wait.
I glance at Mark. “Can I—”
He steps closer immediately, handing the beanie over without a word.
I set it carefully into the cage, nestling it slightly into the shavings.
Gently I lift the top and peek into the opening.
Heath is curled into the fabric, completely still.
Asleep.
“That’s…” I pause. “That’s actually a good sign.”
Mark leans in slightly beside me. “Yeah?”
“He shouldn’t be asleep,” I say. “He’s nocturnal. But after that anxiety attack, I’ll take it. Means he’s calmed down.”
“Good.”
I straighten, reaching for the small container of food, scattering a bit into the corner, then topping up his water.
Routine.
Normality.
Or something close enough to it.
I rest my hand briefly against the edge of the cage, watching the beanie for another second.
“He’s all right,” I say, more to myself than anything else.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then the quiet shifts. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… aware. Like the room has caught up with what just happened and isn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
I become suddenly, acutely conscious of myself.
Of my hands. Of the faint smell lingering on my skin.
I huff out a small breath, dragging a hand over the back of my neck. “I probably smell like hamster,” I say. “Which is not how I imagined tonight going, if I’m honest.”
Mark’s mouth curves slightly.
“Come here,” he says.
Before I can question that, he steps closer, closing the space between us. One hand settles lightly at my waist, steady, familiar already in a way that shouldn’t be.
Then he leans in.
Not for my mouth.
His nose brushes just beneath my ear, along the side of my neck, slow and deliberate. The spark travels all the way into my dick, sharp and immediate, my breath catching before I can stop it.
He inhales lightly.
And for a second, my brain simply… stops.
“That’s not hamster,” he says quietly, his mouth close enough now that I can feel the words against my skin. Then, softer, a brief press of his lips just below my jaw. “That’s all you.”
That’s—
I swallow, very aware of the way my body has decided to react to something as simple as that.
“I think I might need to recalibrate my standards,” I manage.
His hand tightens slightly at my side, not enough to trap me, just enough that I’m aware it’s there.
“If you want,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes again, “I can offer you a shower.”
I let out a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh, if it weren’t doing something else entirely at the same time.
“That feels like a sensible suggestion,” I say.
“Does it.”
“Mm.”
“It’s big enough for two,” he adds with a cheeky wink.
“Right,” I say, because that feels like the safest word available. I guess we're showering together, then.