Chapter 10
Philip
Mark’s kitchen, for all its polished surfaces and offensively expensive air fryer, contains remarkably little food.
Tea.
Pasta.
Protein bars.
A tin of beans and a mini collection of spices and condiments.
That appears to be the extent of his commitment to sustenance.
Useful if stranded for twelve hours.
Less useful for breakfast.
So twenty minutes ago, after discovering that grocery delivery exists in Whitstable, I ordered what any sensible person would consider the basics.
Eggs.
Sourdough.
Bacon.
Avocados.
Hash browns.
Butter.
Lemon.
The counters are now covered in enough food to make the room feel lived in.
Which, I realise as I unpack the last bag, does something oddly satisfying to my chest.
I don’t examine that too closely.
Instead, I get to work.
Bacon under the grill.
Water heating for poached eggs.
Hash browns lined up on a tray.
I glance over at Heath. There wasn’t anything to do for me this morning.
Mark has topped up his water bottle.
Added fresh food.
Even shifted the little beanie he insisted Heath sleep in so it sits tucked into the corner like some sort of rodent penthouse.
Some of the tension leaves me.
Not because a grown man fed a hamster.
Although, admittedly, that is not a sentence I expected to find moving.
But because he did it without having to be asked.
Just saw a small creature that needed looking after and looked after it.
I’m halfway through mashing the avocado when the radio changes song.
I don’t pay much attention at first.
I’m busy trying to get the consistency right and wondering whether two lemons would push the avocado smash over the edge.
Then the opening notes register.
There are songs that belong to very specific periods of your life whether you want them to or not, and this one is apparently filed under house sharing, cheap vodka, and loudly denying you know all the words while knowing every single one.
I point the fork at the radio.
“No.”
Harry Styles ignores me completely whilst signing passionately What Makes You Beautiful.
The water bubbles.
I reach for the pepper mill and by the time the first chorus arrives my foot taps once against the tiles.
Purely incidental.
My shoulders loosen a fraction.
I stir the water.
Tap the fork once against the bowl.
Then again.
This one lands suspiciously in time with the beat.
I hate singing in public. I avoid karaoke like the plague. But the thing is, there is no one here.
Mark has left a note on the kitchen counter saying he’s gone for a run, because apparently even at this hour he is all irritating discipline and unfairly competent calves.
This means, no witnesses.
I move to the toaster, still mouthing the words under my breath, and catch my reflection in the microwave door.
I stop.
Look around as if someone might issue a formal complaint.
Then continue, because apparently shame has not yet had coffee.
By the second chorus, things have deteriorated.
The avocado is done.
The bacon smells indecently good.
I am singing under my breath with all the solemn commitment of a man who should know better.
My hips shift once as I cross back to the hob.
Then again.
A tiny, deeply regrettable sway.
I point the fork at my reflection in the window on you don’t know you’re beautiful, because if I’m going to humiliate myself, I may as well commit.
The song has me by the throat.
I slide across the kitchen tiles to the bread bin, narrowly avoid clipping the island, recover with what I decide is considerable grace, and continue singing to absolutely nobody.
I use the fork as a microphone.
Not because I mean to.
Because it is there.
I lean back against the counter and belt out the next line like I’m on stage at Wembley in front of thousands of adoring fans.
Then I spin towards the island.
And nearly die.
Mark is standing in the living space.
Damp T-Shirt.
Running shoes.
Two takeaway coffees balanced in one hand.
He is leaning one shoulder against the wall, watching me with the kind of quiet amusement that suggests he has been there long enough to gather evidence.
I freeze.
The fork remains in front of my face.
My mouth is still half open on a lyric.
For one catastrophic second, none of my internal systems reboot.
Mark’s eyes flick from the fork to me.
Then to the T-shirt I am wearing.
His T-shirt.
Then back to my face.
“Well,” he says.
I lower the fork very slowly.
“This is not what it looks like.”
He glances at the radio.
At the frying pan.
At my bare legs.
“It looks very much like you were serenading my kitchen.”
“In fairness, your kitchen seemed to need it.”
A smile pulls at his mouth.
Not a laugh.
Worse.
A contained smile, like he’s enjoying this far too much.
I point at him accusingly. “You were supposed to be gone longer.”
“I brought coffee.”
He lifts the tray slightly as proof.
I stare at the cups.
Then at him.
“That is an annoyingly strong defence.”
“I thought so.”
He pushes off the wall and walks to the open plan kitchen.
I become acutely aware of several things at once.
That I am barefoot.
That I am wearing his shirt and only my boxers.
And that he is looking at me in a way that makes all of that feel significantly more noticeable.
He sets the coffees down on the island.
“Two cappuccinos,” he says. “But I can also boil the kettle… in case you are one of those.”
I blink. “One of those?”
“Tea loyalists.”
I put a hand to my chest. “I am wounded by the assumption.”
“So coffee, then.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
There’s a beat as his gaze moves over the counters.
The bags.
The trays.
The spread of breakfast.
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“You ordered half a supermarket.”
“Your cupboards were bleak.”
“I usually go out for breakfast.”
“Seeing as wearing boxers in public is generally frowned upon, I prefer eating in.”
That gets a proper laugh out of him.
Warm and low.
My stomach does something deeply inconvenient.
“I leave for one run,” he says.
“And come back to civilisation,” I reply.
“Hm.”
His gaze lingers on me again.
Not the breakfast this time.
Me.
The radio carries on brightly in the background, deeply unconcerned by my loss of dignity.
Mark’s eyes drop briefly to the fork still in my hand.
Then back up.
“You can continue, if you want.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “I absolutely cannot.”
“Shame.”
“It isn’t a shame. It’s a mercy.”
“For who?”
He reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over the hem of the T-shirt where it hangs against my thigh.
Just a brief touch.
Barely there.
But enough.
His eyes lift to mine.
“I think,” he says quietly, “this might be my favourite version of you so far.”
My breath catches.
Which is inconvenient.
I attempt recovery through sarcasm.
“Not surprising, considering I was covered in hamster-related trauma yesterday.”
His mouth twitches.
“Still.”
The room goes very tense around that one word.
I am suddenly aware that the fork is still in my hand like some sort of deranged emotional support baton. I set it down with what remains of my self-respect. “Breakfast. We’re moving on.”
Mark catches my wrist before I can turn.
Just lightly.
Then leans in and kisses me.
Quick. Warm. Smiling against my mouth.
When he pulls back, his eyes are still bright with amusement.
“What’s for breakfast then, Chef?”
He lets go of my wrist and reaches for his coffee.
I turn back to the hob, mostly so he doesn’t see the stupid smile trying to happen.
Too late, almost certainly.
“Avocado smash and poached eggs,” I say over my shoulder.
Mark reaches for one of the takeaway coffees, takes a sip, then glances down at himself.
“Do you think I’ve got time to shower? Before I drip all over your breakfast.”
“That would be appreciated.”
He leans in, brushes another brief kiss against my mouth, and disappears upstairs.
I stand where I am for a second after he’s gone.
My pulse taking its time to return to normal.
“This,” I tell Heath, “is getting out of hand.”
He stuffs a sunflower seed into his face and offers no guidance.
Useless.
I turn the music down and get on with the rest.
Bacon crisping under the grill.
Tomatoes softening.
Sourdough toasted.
Avocado spread thick.
Hash browns golden.
I leave the eggs until last.
They need to be fresh.
By the time footsteps sound on the stairs again, the water is just beginning to tremble.
I glance up.
Mark has changed into jeans and a white T-shirt, tattoos dark against clean skin.
He looks unfairly good for a man who spent an hour sweating voluntarily.
His gaze moves over the counter.
Then to me.
“I’m starving!”
“Just a few more minutes,” I say.
I crack the eggs into the water one after the other.
Behind me I hear him pull out one of the stools and sit down.
Present in my peripheral vision in a way that should be distracting.
It is.
I just don’t mind.
I fish the eggs out when they’re done and set them carefully on top of the avocado toast.
Yolk-heavy perfection.
Then carry both plates over.
Mark looks down at his breakfast.
I slide the plate in front of him and lift the tray with the hash browns.
“I made these too,” I say. “Although I wasn’t sure if you’d eat them.”
Mark looks up. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I lift one shoulder. “You run before sunrise. You own protein bars. You look like the sort of man who says things like clean bulk.”
He snorts.
“I’m not a psychopath.”
Before I can react, he leans forward, catches my wrist lightly, and takes a bite directly out of the hash brown I’m holding.
I gasp.
Not because he stole food.
Because he is suddenly close enough that I catch soap, coffee, the last trace of sea air still clinging to him.
He chews, eyes on mine.
Then nods.
“Definitely eating them.”
He releases my wrist and sits back like he has not just briefly short-circuited my nervous system with one completely unnecessary mouthful of potato.
“That,” I say after a second, “was deeply rude.”
“You offered.”
“I did not.”
“You implied.”
I set the tray down and sit opposite him before my legs forget how standing works.
Mark smiles into his coffee.
Bastard.
For a minute or two we eat.
The first few bites are mostly practical.
But the longer we sit there, the more aware I become of how strangely easy this feels.
Not yet normal.