Chapter 7
Philip
This is not how tonight was supposed to go.
I lie back against the pillows, damp hair cooling against my neck, a towel slung low around my waist, and stare up at a ceiling I do not own in a house I definitely did not plan to end up in.
And yet.
Here I am.
Mark’s bedroom looks exactly as I should have expected. Clean lines, pale wood, soft blues and greens that ought to feel pretentious but somehow don’t. Minimal without being cold. Like everything has been chosen with the same quiet certainty Mark seems to apply to everything else.
The bed is excessive.
Not ridiculous.
Just large enough to make a point.
There is a fireplace here too, already lit, low flames flickering against the walls. I don’t remember him turning it on. That tracks. Mark seems to do things without announcing them and somehow everything ends up exactly where it needs to be.
I shift the towel and exhale.
I met him tonight.
That thought still surprises me.
Tonight.
A pub. A drink. One very questionable decision.
And now this.
A house by the sea. His bed. Mark downstairs.
Stop.
The door opens before I can disappear too far into that particular mess.
Mark steps in with my bag.
“Thought you might want this.”
“Very considerate.”
He sets it down by the bed. “Heath’s up.”
I peer at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Eating like nothing happened.”
Relief moves through me, warm and immediate.
“Good,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “That’s good.”
Mark watches me for a second, and I try not to dwell on the fact that he checked. That he noticed I would need to know.
“He’s tougher than he looks,” he says.
“He’s dramatic,” I correct.
Mark grins. “I like him.”
I grin. “I’ll add you to Heath’s birthday invite list.”
“Exclusive event?”
“Very. He doesn’t trust easily.”
“Glad I made the cut.”
Then he reaches for his wardrobe.
Shorts. T-shirt.
And because the universe hates me, he drops his towel without a flicker of self-consciousness.
There is a brief but significant period in which my brain ceases to contribute.
He is built exactly the way no one should be allowed to be this casual about. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscle sitting there as if it simply happened by accident.
I am staring.
Fantastic.
It’s not like I didn’t see him naked in the shower, but I’m considerably more aware of it now that my brain is functioning at a level above feral. I look away just as he pulls the T-shirt on and reach for my own bag.
Clothes.
Yes.
Excellent plan.
I pull out my T-shirt and shorts, suddenly far too aware of my own body. Softer. Heavier. Usually not an issue.
Apparently tonight we are insecure.
I turn slightly as I dress.
Not enough to be obvious.
“Philip.”
I freeze.
I glance up.
He is watching me.
“What?” I ask.
He steps closer, unhurried.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Do what.”
“That.”
He gestures vaguely, but I know.
The turning away.
The shrinking.
I huff out a breath. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You are.”
My gaze flicks to him, then away. “You’ve seen yourself, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve seen me.”
“Yeah.”
I let out a short laugh. “So we’re all working with the same information.”
He steps in until I can feel the heat of him.
“I like you,” he says.
I look up.
His gaze does not move.
“Exactly as you are.”
The words land with infuriating solidity.
No flirt.
No easy charm.
Just fact.
I swallow.
“You say that now.”
His thumb strokes once across my knuckles. “I’m not planning to change my mind.”
He cups my face. “You don’t need to hide.”
I steal a glance at him.
Then I do what I always do when things get too sincere.
I step back, roll my shoulders, and give him a slow exaggerated turn like a deeply underfunded catwalk model.
“Better?”
There is half a beat.
Then Mark laughs.
Properly.
Low and unguarded.
“Come here.”
He catches my wrist before I can pretend I’m considering it and pulls me forward.
I land back on the bed with a laugh.
“That’s not fair.”
“Probably.”
He shifts us both against the headboard, close enough that our arms brush.
The fire flickers opposite us.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
Not awkward.
Just still.
I glance at him. “Do you do this often? Taking guys home on the day you’ve met them?”
“No.”
“No?”
He turns his head towards me. “No. But naturally, I met the most interesting man I’ve come across in years five days before he buggers off to Toronto.”
I huff out something between a laugh and a groan.
“That is unfortunate timing.”
“Yeah.” His eyes stay on mine. “Didn’t feel worth ignoring.”
That strikes deeper than I expect.
I look back at the fire.
“We’ve only got the weekend,” I say.
“Better than nothing.”
Simple.
No argument. No attempt to make it into forever.
Just the weekend, accepted for what it is.
Which should feel safer than it does.
“You've been to Whitstable before?” he asks.
I laugh softly. “Yeah. I grew up in Herne Bay. Secondary school here. So I know it in the glamorous sense of buses, uniforms, and trying not to look like I cared I was in Whitstable.”
That gets a small smile.
“Family still there?”
“Herne Bay. Yeah.”
He nods once. “I can drive you over tomorrow, if you want.”
I hesitate.
Because it is not a strange offer.
It feels alarmingly natural.
“That’s kind,” I say. Then I look back at the fire. “I’m not very close to them.”
“All right.”
Just that.
No pressure.
So I keep going.
“My sister’s the exception. My younger brother still lives nearby, I think, but we’ve never been especially close.” I pause. “My parents both insist they love me. I’m sure they do. My dad just prefers to act as though me being gay is an unfortunate clerical error.”
Mark says nothing.
“My mum was clearer. She told me years ago she didn’t want to hear about my lifestyle.” I let the word sit there. “Suggested I keep it private.”
Mark goes very still.
“That’s not private,” he says quietly. “That’s being told to make yourself smaller.”
I stare at the fire.
Because he’s not wrong.
“I got quite good at it,” I admit after a moment. “Making things easy for other people.”
He turns to look at me.
“That makes me sad.”
The honesty of it catches me off guard.
So naturally I sidestep.
“What about you? Any tragic coming-out speeches? Family melodrama?”
His chuckles. He sees what I’m doing and lets me do it anyway.
“No. Mine went the opposite way.”
“How suspiciously wholesome.”
“My parents were supportive,” he says. “My brothers were worse.”
I glance at him. “Worse?”
“They decided it was their duty to help.”
“Oh no.”
“Any gay man they met, they tried to set me up with.”
I laugh.
“They once sent me on a blind date with someone they were convinced was gay.”
“Let me guess. He wasn’t.”
“No.”
I grin. “How long until that became clear?”
“Too long. We spent most of dinner trying to work out what the other one thought was happening.”
“That sounds horrific.”
“It was very polite,” he says.
I laugh again, the heaviness easing just enough.
Then Mark looks back at the fire.
“Only place I ever hid it was the army.”
I glance at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There is no drama in the way he says it.
Just fact.
“What was that like?”
He shifts one shoulder against the headboard. “Fine at first. Until it wasn’t.”
I wait.
“You learn quickly what fits and what doesn’t. Easier not to offer up the parts that complicate things.”
That lands too neatly.
“And eventually?”
“I got tired of editing myself down,” he says.
Edit.
I know that feeling.
“So you left.”
“Yeah. Used what I knew. Engineering. Started building parts, then bigger things, then companies.”
He says it like he is discussing weather.
I study him.
“That explains the not-a-cottage.”
His mouth twitches.
“What about you? How does someone become an editor?”
“Accidentally,” I say. “I had a brief tragic period where I thought I was going to be a poet.”
He turns towards me. “Yeah?”
“There is, somewhere in the world, a notebook containing poems dedicated to the Backstreet Boys.”
He laughs.
I point at him. “Do not.”
“I’d pay to read those.”
“You absolutely may not.”
His smile lingers.
“What changed?”
I look back at the fire.
“I realised I was much better at fixing what didn’t work in other people’s writing than producing any of my own worth defending.”
“And that became this.”
“Eventually.” I tuck one leg up slightly. “There’s a logic to editing. You can see what’s broken. You can improve it. There’s a way through.”
“And people don’t work like that.”
I glance at him.
“No,” I say quietly. “People are messier… you can’t edit them.”
Mark says nothing.
Just lets the words sit there between us, steady and warm and far too close to something I do not want to name.