@violent-urges and I went together and it was so much fun!
So first off- it was so good!!! The set design was SO COOL! The ensemble was a few sailors, who moved the props around during the show in a way that really worked and didn't distract from the scene. The setting starts in New York and eventually gets to Boston and off the coast of Provincetown. THAT'S LITERALLY LIKE RIGHT WHERE I LIVE and hearing him just say the word Boston for some reason was so hot 😂
Everyone in the show was amazing- the chemistry, the emotional displays- everything was great.... but Tom.
Tom was just... brilliant. For those who haven't seen the show, he talks in this insanely gruff, authentic sexy Irish accent that like. actively had me gaping and honestly blushing from time to time 🤣 his character is totally unhinged and raunchy and he was just absolutely incredible. My jaw was on the floor by the end.
Also watching him kiss someone in real life made my brain short circuit for sure 😳
Waited in the freezing cold for a bit after (worth it). The very first thing I said to him was "is this real life?" and he looked at me like 🤨🤨 LMAOOOOO
He's like..unreal in person idk how to even describe it. I was expecting him to tower over me but he's just about my height, which was more intimidating because eye contact is scary 🤣 he's smol lol. But also he's SO BUFF HIS ARMS ARE HUGE???
He looked absolutely exhausted and I said that to him without thinking lol! He agreed cause it was a two show day, so I really hope he went home and slept so good he deserves it
I asked him how he manages accents so well and he was just like "it takes a little bit of practice" 😂😂
I wanted to mention I live where the show is set and tell him to go to Provincetown during pride week, but forgot that part
I also definitely embarrassed myself gushing at him. I told him something really personal and he was so kind. He's really inspiring to me because I've always wanted to be an actress, but never had the confidence (or time lol). There was a Comic Con panel in Holland he did a couple years ago where he gave acting advice to someone who asked. He basically said to just always be acting when you can- to make videos with friends, practice monologues. I've actually tried to do stuff like that and it helped my confidence a lot! I offhandedly mentioned that I haven't been able to do it recently because I have a two year old now, and his face just LIT UP and he said "congratulations" really excitedly, I think my ovaries exploded 🤣🤣 also, I got my book recommendation! When I asked he obviously had a million thoughts in his head so I narrowed it down to old school stuff, and he immediately had one-
"The Mayor of Casterbridge" if anyone else wants to check it out. With my unmedicated ADHD I'm sure it will take me forever but I'm determined to read it all, then see him in another show and share my thoughts (or so I hope lmaoooo)
Jae gave him a BEAUTIFUL piece of art they made and he definitely loved it. He said "oh wow" and that it was amazing (it was!!!) he's just so fucking sweet 😭😭
Also holy handsome. unbelievably handsome. brain exploding in person.
ALSO ALSO!!! you could definitely tell he doesn't like to sit still because he occasionally would fidget with his hands. it worked with the scenes but it was so endearing
All in all 10/10 experience and I may never recover, send help
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Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader,
You made it home at approximately half past three in the morning.
The precise time was difficult to establish because none of you had been especially capable of reading a clock by then, and because the Uber driver had taken one look at the two of you climbing into the back seat and wisely decided that conversation was unnecessary.
Frank had remained in Soho, of course, while Tom was pressed against your side for most of the journey, one hand resting heavily on your thigh, his head tilted back against the seat and his eyes closed. He had looked utterly exhausted and indecently satisfied.
When the driver stopped outside his house, Tom opened his eyes and attempted to stand.
The attempt lasted approximately two seconds.
He froze halfway out of the car.
You waited.
The driver waited.
Tom gripped the top of the door and looked straight ahead with the fixed expression of a man encountering the consequences of his own decisions.
You covered your mouth.
Tom turned slowly toward you.
“Don’t.”
That made it worse.
You laughed so hard you had to hold the car door.
“I’m sorry.”
“You are not.”
“I’m a little sorry.”
“You look delighted.”
You were delighted.
He managed the pavement with what he clearly believed was a normal stride and what was, in reality, the careful movement of a man trying not to reveal that every muscle below his waist had filed a formal complaint.
You followed him toward the house.
“You know,” you said, “that might have been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Tom stopped beneath the security light.
He looked back at you.
His face was tired, his hair still disordered and his mouth slightly swollen.
“Clearly, I am blessed.”
You moved closer and slid one arm around his waist.
“You are.”
“A much younger girlfriend who finds my physical suffering erotic.”
“Not the suffering.”
“No?”
“The cause.”
Tom stared at you for a moment.
Then he leaned down and kissed you once, slowly.
“You are an absolute menace.”
“And yet you’re smiling.”
“I’m delirious.”
You barely remembered getting into bed.
You remembered Tom lowering himself onto the mattress with extraordinary care.
You remembered removing half your clothes and leaving the rest on the floor.
You remembered curling against him while he muttered something about needing several days of bed rest and possibly a medical certificate.
Then you slept.
Five hours later, your phone began vibrating somewhere beneath the duvet.
You ignored it.
It stopped.
Then started again.
You pushed your face deeper into the pillow.
Beside you, Tom made a low, irritated sound.
The phone stopped.
Three seconds later, it began again.
Tom reached blindly across you, found the device somewhere near your hip and shoved it toward your face.
“Someone is very committed to ruining my life.”
Your eyes remained closed.
“Probably my mother.”
“Then answer it before she comes here personally.”
You opened one eye.
The screen displayed Leo’s name.
You answered.
“What?”
There was a brief silence.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Leo.”
“Yes.”
You waited.
“Why are you still in bed?”
Your eyes opened fully.
You looked at the time.
Then you sat upright so quickly that the room tilted.
“Oh, fuck.”
Tom opened his eyes.
“What?”
“We’re late.”
He stared at you.
“How late?”
Leo was still speaking through the phone.
“We were supposed to leave half an hour ago. Arthur is standing outside with three bags, two coffees and the expression of a Victorian orphan.”
In the background, Arthur called, “Tell her Mum has already rung me twice to make sure that we are on our way.”
You threw the duvet aside.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Leo laughed.
“You’re still in bed.”
“No, I’m not.”
You attempted to stand while saying it and became tangled in the sheet.
Tom caught your arm before you fell.
Leo heard the commotion.
“You are absolutely still in bed.”
“We’re leaving.”
Then you hung up and Tom lay back against the pillows.
“Twenty minutes?”
You were already searching the floor for underwear.
“Yes.”
“It takes fifteen minutes to reach them.”
“Exactly.”
“That leaves five minutes to become functional human beings.”
You pulled on yesterday’s jeans.
“You’re an actor.”
“That does not make me a magician.”
He sat up. Then stopped. His entire face tightened.
You turned.
Tom remained very still, one hand flat against the mattress.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
His gaze lifted to yours.
“I can see you trying not to laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re physically vibrating.”
“You said it was tomorrow’s problem.”
“It is tomorrow.”
“Technically, it’s today.”
Tom gave you a cold look.
“I deeply regret teaching you the importance of accuracy.”
You crossed the room, bent and kissed him.
“Still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
His hand settled around the back of your neck.
“Clearly, I am blessed.”
“You are.”
It took twenty-eight minutes. This was partly because Tom required a shower, partly because neither of you could locate his belt and partly because he rejected the first pair of trousers he tried on after discovering they had holes in them.
By the time you reached Arthur and Leo, they were waiting on the pavement beside their luggage. Arthur opened the rear door and stopped.
He looked at Tom in the passenger seat. Then at you behind the wheel. Then back at Tom.
Leo appeared over his shoulder. His eyes travelled slowly between you both.
“Why is she driving?”
Tom adjusted his sunglasses. It was not sunny.
“Because she volunteered.”
Arthur put one bag into the boot.
“She never volunteers to drive.”
“I drive.”
Arthur looked at you.
“You drove onto a pedestrian island last month and almost took out an eighty year old.”
“It was poorly marked.”
Leo climbed into the back seat.
“And Tom looks like he has recently returned from war.”
Tom turned his head slightly.
“Good morning, Leo.”
“Morning.”
Arthur got in beside him and shut the door.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
You pulled away from the kerb.
Arthur leaned forward between the seats.
“So.”
You kept your attention on the road.
“So what?”
“How was Soho last night?”
Tom’s shoulders went rigid. You glanced at him. His ears were already turning red.
Leo made a thoughtful sound.
“Yes. You all left together to look at Frank’s photographs.”
“We did.”
Arthur waited. You waited. He leaned farther forward.
“And?”
“Frank’s pictures are very nice.”
Leo covered his mouth with one hand. Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
“That is not an answer.”
Tom looked out the window. His reflection in the glass looked faintly horrified.
Leo studied him. Then he looked down at the way Tom was sitting: unnaturally upright, his weight shifted slightly to one side. Understanding arrived. His eyebrows rose.
Arthur followed his gaze. Then his mouth dropped open.
“Oh.”
Tom closed his eyes.
“No,” you said immediately.
Arthur looked at you.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say that Tom appears tired.”
Leo nodded solemnly.
“Extremely tired.”
Arthur fell back against the seat.
Tom removed his sunglasses and rubbed one hand over his face.
“I am forty, alright? I need sleep and we got home late. So can we perhaps discuss literally anything else?”
Arthur smiled.
“Certainly.”
Tom put the sunglasses back on. You reached across and squeezed his knee. He flinched. You immediately withdrew your hand.
Arthur saw.
A strangled sound escaped him.
“Not one word.”
He held up both hands.
“I said nothing.”
Your phone chimed ay that exact moment. Then Tom’s.
You glanced down at the notification displayed across your screen.
A new group chat had been created.
FRANK CONNOR had named the group: CULTURAL APPRECIATION SOCIETY
You stared. Tom cautiously took out his phone.
Arthur leaned forward.
“Who’s that?”
You tilted your screen away while driving.
“Nobody.”
A message appeared.
FRANK: I trust everyone survived the journey home.
Another followed.
FRANK: And I hope that Tom is doing alright and isn’t too sore today.
Silence filled the car.
You had not connected the phone to the sound system.
Unfortunately, you had connected it to the large display mounted in the centre of the dashboard. The full message glowed there in bright white letters.
Arthur made a choking noise. Leo turned his face toward the window and began laughing soundlessly. Tom stared at the dashboard as if considering whether he could destroy it with his bare hands.
You reached for the screen.
“How do I make that disappear?”
“Drive the car into a lake,” Tom said.
Arthur was bent forward laughing, his forehead nearly touching his knees, while Leo wiped tears from his eyes. Beside you, Tom had already disconnected your phone from the car with frantic efficiency and then pretended that nothing happened.
*******
After that, the first hour of the drive required four coffees.
You drank two.
Leo drank one.
Arthur drank most of the fourth after Tom fell asleep holding it.
He had lasted forty minutes.
Then his head tipped toward the window, his arms folded across his chest. A few minutes later, it rolled slowly toward you until it rested against the side of the seat.
You lowered the music.
Without the sunglasses, he looked younger in sleep. Less guarded. His hair was still slightly damp from the hurried shower, and there was a faint mark high on his neck that his shirt collar did not entirely conceal.
Leo noticed you noticing it.
He said nothing.
Arthur did not possess the same restraint.
“You know concealer exists.”
You looked at him in the mirror.
“You know silence exists.”
“I’ve heard rumours.”
Tom slept for nearly ninety minutes.
When he woke, he seemed briefly confused by the countryside passing beyond the window.
Then he shifted.
His expression changed.
You glanced at him.
“All right?”
He sat very still.
“Wonderful.”
“Liar.”
“I’m preserving what remains of my dignity.”
Arthur leaned between the seats again.
“There isn’t much.”
You hit him blindly from the front.
“Ow.”
“Leave him alone.”
Tom looked at you.
“Thank you.”
You smiled sweetly.
“Only I’m allowed to make fun of you.”
“There it is.”
*******
An hour later, a house appeared at the end of a long gravel drive bordered by ancient trees and low stone walls.
Tom stared through the windscreen.
The main building rose from the landscape in pale grey stone, with multiple chimneys, arched windows and ivy creeping over one entire wing. A circular drive curved around a fountain large enough to require its own maintenance staff.
Tom slowly removed his sunglasses.
“That is not a cottage.”
You turned into the drive.
“It is to my mother.”
“That is an estate.”
“She calls it the country house.”
“There are battlements.”
Arthur leaned forward.
“Decorative battlements.”
Tom looked at him.
“That clarification has done very little to reassure me.”
You parked near the front steps.
Before you had switched off the engine, the front door opened.
Your father emerged first. Your mother followed him, dressed as if she had been expecting a photographer rather than four sleep-deprived relatives.
Behind them came your parents’ goddaughter, Denise, holding the hand of a small child while two others moved around her legs in opposite directions.
Your mother looked at the car. Then at her watch.
You climbed out.
“Hello.”
“You’re late.”
“Barely.”
“Forty-seven minutes.”
“Traffic.”
Arthur opened the boot.
“There was no traffic.”
You turned.
“Traitor.”
Tom emerged carefully from the passenger side.
Your father’s attention moved immediately to him.
Tom straightened. A mistake. His face tightened for half a second before he recovered.
Your father noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Good God, Tom. You look dreadful.”
Tom gave him a tired smile.
“Lovely to see you too.”
Your father looked him over.
“And rather stiff.”
Arthur shut the boot.
“It’s been a long night.”
You hit him in the stomach with the back of your hand.
“Ow.”
Your mother frowned.
“What is wrong with him?”
“Nothing,” you said.
Tom adjusted his bag over one shoulder.
“I didn’t sleep particularly well.”
Arthur coughed into his fist and you kicked his ankle.
Denise approached with the children.
“Hello. I’m Denise.”
Tom turned toward her with visible gratitude.
“Tom. Nice to meet you.”
One of the children looked up at him.
“Are you on TV?”
Tom considered this.
“Occasionally.”
The child pointed at you.
“She said you’re her boyfriend.”
“That is also occasionally true.”
You looked at him. Tom’s mouth twitched.
Your mother stepped aside.
“Come inside. Lunch is nearly ready.”
The entrance hall was larger than Tom’s entire ground floor.
He stopped just inside and looked up at the sweeping staircase, the enormous chandelier and the portraits lining both walls.
You moved beside him while your father directed Arthur and Leo toward the staircase.
“You two are in the blue room again.”
Arthur nodded.
Your mother turned to you.
“You’re in your old room.”
Then she looked at Tom.
“And we put you in the guest room downstairs. It has its own bathroom.”
You stared at her.
“Excuse me?”
Tom became very interested in the pattern of the floor tiles. Leo covered a smile. Arthur did not bother.
“No. Hang on.”
Your mother looked at you.
“What?”
You pointed toward Arthur and Leo.
“They get to share.”
Arthur took Leo’s hand.
“We’re engaged.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
Your mother sighed.
“You and Tom haven’t been together very long. I didn’t want to assume.”
“Assume what?”
Tom quietly said your name. You ignored him.
“That we sleep together?”
Your mother’s expression changed.
“I was trying to be considerate.”
“It’s fine. Tom and I have sex. We can sleep in the same bed, but thank you for the consideration.”
The entrance hall went completely silent.
Your mother stared at you.
“Y/N!”
Denise abruptly bent to adjust one child’s shoe despite the shoe appearing perfectly secure. Arthur turned into Leo’s shoulder. Leo’s body shook with contained laughter.
Your father looked at Tom. Not at you. At Tom. And Tom looked as though he regretted every choice he had made since leaving his house the previous evening.
“I’m going to take the bags upstairs,” he said.
Your father continued looking at him.
Tom picked up the wrong suitcase.
Leo gently took it from him.
“That one’s ours.”
“Of course it is.”
Your mother pressed two fingers to her forehead.
“Fine. You can both use your room.”
“Thank you.”
“I genuinely did not need the additional information.”
*********
Lunch was served in a dining room that could comfortably accommodate twenty people.
There were nine of you. This somehow made it feel more formal.
The table had been set with linen napkins, silver cutlery and glasses for three different types of wine, despite it being barely noon.
Tom sat beside you and looked down at the arrangement. Then he leaned closer.
“This is extremely formal.”
“Yes.”
“I feel underdressed.”
You looked at his black trousers, white shirt and dark jacket.
“You are underdressed.”
He turned his head.
“Fabulous.”
Your father sat at the head of the table. Your mother sat opposite him.
Denise was occupied cutting food into smaller pieces while simultaneously preventing one child from pouring water into another child’s lap.
Arthur and Leo sat across from you. Arthur looked far too pleased with himself. The first ten minutes passed safely. There was discussion of the drive, the children’s school holidays and the weather.
Then your father looked at Tom.
“What are you working on next?”
Tom placed his fork down.
“I’m filming in France next month.”
“Another film?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“About eight weeks, possibly ten depending on the schedule.”
Your father nodded.
“And after that?”
Tom glanced at you before answering.
“I’d like to do a play maybe.”
Your mother looked up.
“Theatre?”
“Ideally.”
Your father’s expression remained neutral.
“West End?”
“If the right thing comes along.”
You reached for the water.
Tom continued.
“Y/N is doing a play later this year as well.”
Your mother looked at you.
“You are?”
“We discussed it.”
“You said there had been an offer. You didn’t say you had accepted.”
“I’m close to accepting.”
Tom nodded.
Your father looked between you.
“And you’re planning your work around one another already?”
Tom’s voice remained calm.
“Not exactly around one another. But if I can find something with a similar run, it would mean we were both in London at the same time rather than being apart.”
Your mother held her wineglass but did not drink.
“You’re thinking quite far ahead.”
Tom met her gaze.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You frowned.
“Mum.”
She looked at you.
“It’s a reasonable question.”
Then she turned back to Tom.
“You’ve only just started seeing each other. There have already been photographs, press attention, the issue with James, the situation with that girl who entered the flat and now this latest scandal.”
Tom’s expression altered slightly at the word. You saw it. So did Arthur.
“It isn’t a scandal,” you said.
Your mother gave you a weary look.
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what the papers called it.”
Your father intervened.
“Your mother is asking whether it is wise to plan your lives around one another.”
Tom folded his hands loosely on the table.
“We considered it.”
Your mother watched him.
“So you genuinely believe this will last?”
The question landed with enough force to silence even the children.
You stared at her.
“Mother.”
Tom’s knee touched yours beneath the table. You could feel the tension held through his body. He did not withdraw.
“I can’t guarantee what happens in ten years,” he said. “Neither can anyone else. But I’m not treating this casually if that’s what you are asking me.”
Your mother looked at you.
“And you?”
“I’m at lunch.”
Arthur coughed. Leo kicked him under the table before he could speak.
Your mother’s attention shifted to them.
“Since we’re discussing long-term planning, I reviewed your wedding guest list.”
Arthur slowly put down his glass.
“Why?”
“Because you sent it to me.”
“For the seating numbers.”
“I noticed a name.”
Arthur leaned back.
“There are forty-five names.”
“And one of them is Frank Connor.”
Tom inhaled a piece of water. He coughed sharply and turned away from the table.
You placed one hand against his back.
Arthur closed his eyes briefly. Leo stared down at his plate.
Your mother looked at Tom.
“No offence, Tom.”
Tom was still coughing.
“None taken,” he managed.
“I’m still trying to come to terms with all of this.”
Your hand stopped against Tom’s back.
“All of what?”
Your mother’s lips tightened.
“You know what.”
“I’d like you to say it.”
Your father gave you a warning look.
“Y/N.”
Your mother continued.
“The fact that Tom and this man used to see one another.”
Tom reached for his water again.
Arthur corrected her.
“They didn’t exactly date. They just slept with each other.”
Your mother looked appalled while Denise covered her eldest daughter’s ears.
“That does not improve matters.”
Arthur shrugged.
“Doesn’t it?”
You kicked him beneath the table.
He looked at you.
“What?”
Your mother turned back to him.
“Don’t you think inviting someone Tom was involved with could upset your sister?”
Arthur looked at you.
Then at Tom.
Then back at your mother.
“No. I think she’d be pleased.”
You kicked him harder.
He jerked.
“What?”
Tom’s face was now completely red.
Leo put one hand over his eyes.
Your mother looked confused. Your father looked suspicious. Denise looked as though she desperately wanted to leave the room but could not because one child had begun methodically dismantling a bread roll.
“Why would she be pleased?” your mother asked.
Arthur looked at you. You gave him a look that should have killed him instantly. He reconsidered.
“Because she likes Frank.”
Your mother’s gaze shifted to you.
“You know him?”
“Yeah. I’ve met him. He seems nice.”
“He seems nice?”
“Yes.”
“He was your boyfriend’s lover.”
Tom looked down at his plate.
You felt anger rise hot beneath your ribs.
“So?”
Your mother exhaled.
“So, I am asking whether it might make you uncomfortable.”
You thought of Frank’s hand in Tom’s hair. Tom’s mouth open against yours. The shower filling with steam. The group chat still sitting unread on your phone.
“Not in the slightest, actually.”
Tom turned his head toward you.
His expression was indescribable.
Arthur bit his lip.
Leo looked down quickly.
Your mother appeared relieved for entirely the wrong reason.
“Well. That’s something.”
Your father looked at Tom then, checking in.
“Would it make you uncomfortable?”
Tom paused.
He glanced at you.
You smiled with far too much innocence. He knew exactly what you were thinking.
“No,” he said carefully. “Frank is still a friend, so it’s fine.”
Arthur murmured, “A very considerate friend.”
You reached for the salt cellar.
Arthur moved his wineglass out of throwing range.
Your mother continued.
“Well, I am just saying that people are already discussing your private life. Having a former male partner at the wedding may encourage more speculation.”
Tom’s expression cooled.
“People will speculate regardless. Whether he is there or not.”
You nodded and placed your hand over Tom’s.
“Exactly,” you said, which is when Denise seized the moment by announcing that the children needed to go outside.
Seconds later, they left in a flurry of napkins, half-eaten bread and relief while Arthur and Leo volunteered to help.
Cowards.
You started to stand.
Your mother stopped you.
“Could you stay a moment?”
At the same time, your father looked at Tom.
“Perhaps you and I could have a word.”
You and Tom turned toward one another.
The same realisation passed between you.
Ambush.
Tom’s mouth tightened.
You gave him a small apologetic look.
He stood carefully. Too carefully.
Your father noticed again.
“Library?”
Tom nodded.
“Of course.”
Your father led him from the room.
You watched them go.
Your mother waited until the door closed.
Then she poured more wine into her glass.
“Before you become defensive—”
“Too late.”
She sighed.
“I am trying to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“How you feel about all of this.”
“You asked me at lunch.”
“You made jokes.”
“Because the alternative was throwing myself through a window.”
Your mother’s mouth tightened.
“I know bisexuality isn’t new to you.”
You looked at her.
“That is an interesting choice of words.”
She hesitated.
Your mother knew about you. She did not discuss it. That had always been the arrangement she preferred. Knowledge without acknowledgement. Acceptance without visible evidence.
“This is different,” she said.
“Because Tom is a man?”
“Because Tom has been with men.”
You sat back. There it was. Not dressed up in concern about the press. Not hidden behind wedding guests. The truth.
Your mother looked uncomfortable the moment the words left her mouth, but she did not retract them.
“And that bothers you.”
“It unsettles me.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the door.
“Because I don’t understand how someone can want both.”
“You understand that I can.”
“You’ve never had a serious relationship with a woman.”
“That doesn’t make me less interested in them sexually.”
“I’m not saying it does.”
“You are, actually.”
She rubbed one thumb over the stem of her glass.
“I worry that you’re being naïve.”
You stared at her.
“About what?”
“About whether he can be satisfied.”
For a second, you genuinely could not speak.
Then you laughed once.
There was no humour in it.
“Mum.”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
“You’re implying that bisexual people are incapable of monogamy.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You asked whether he can be satisfied by me because he’s attracted to men.”
Her face coloured.
“Surely it has crossed your mind.”
It had. Not because you believed Tom would inevitably leave you. Not because you believed his attraction to men made him incapable of loving you. It had crossed your mind because insecurity was indiscriminate and because you were human. But last night had not made you feel insufficient. It had made you feel trusted. Included. Desired.
You leaned forward.
“Tom being attracted to men does not erase his attraction to me.”
“But you can’t give him everything a man can.”
You thought of the previous night.
A smile threatened. You suppressed it. Barely.
“Relationships are not built on one person physically embodying every possible thing their partner could ever find attractive.”
Your mother studied you.
“You’ve thought about this.”
“Yes.”
You picked up your water glass, then looked at her steadily.
“And I need you to stop thinking about it, because I am genuinely happy with Tom. So please, just be happy for me.”
Your mother held your gaze for a moment.
Then she nodded and, mercifully, left it there. At least for now.
*******
Meanwhile, in the library, your father closed the door behind Tom.
The room smelled of old leather, polished wood and the fire that had been lit despite the mild weather.
Tom remained standing near the desk.
Your father gestured toward a chair.
Tom sat.
Carefully.
Your father noticed.
Again.
He took the chair opposite.
“Back trouble?”
Tom paused.
“Something like that.”
Your father nodded slowly.
Tom was fairly certain the man knew.
Perhaps not exactly.
But enough.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Your father rested one ankle over the opposite knee.
“I’m going to be direct.”
Tom almost smiled.
“I had assumed.”
“My daughter has a tendency to move quickly.”
“I’m aware.”
“She also has a tendency to mistake intensity for permanence.”
Tom’s expression changed.
“I don’t think that’s what she’s doing.”
“You’ve known her for a few months.”
“Long enough to know she isn’t foolish.”
Your father studied him.
“I didn’t say she was.”
“You implied she doesn’t understand her own feelings.”
A faint tension entered your father’s face.
“You defend her very quickly.”
“Someone should.”
The answer landed harder than Tom intended.
Your father sat back.
“I protect my daughter.”
“I’m sure you believe that.”
Silence.
Tom became aware that he was in a remote country house with a man who had produced several successful films, employed hundreds of people and looked perfectly capable of having someone buried beneath the decorative battlements.
Your father folded his hands.
“You’re forty.”
“Yes.”
“She’s twenty-four.”
“I know.”
“You have a teenage daughter, a complicated history with your former partners and a public life that has already drawn my daughter into situations she was not prepared for.”
Tom held his gaze.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I think about it constantly.”
That answer seemed to surprise him.
Your father’s eyes narrowed.
“And the business with men?”
Tom’s entire body went still.
He had expected it.
That did not make it less unpleasant.
“What about it?”
Your father glanced toward the fire.
“I don’t care what consenting adults do in private.”
Tom thought of every person who had ever begun a sentence that way.
“But?”
“But my daughter is involved now.”
“Yes, she is. And she knew before the photographs appeared.”
“That’s true?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
Tom’s voice cooled.
“Everything relevant to her.”
Your father considered that.
“Are you still attracted to men?”
There was no graceful answer to the question because the question itself was built on a false premise.
Tom looked at him.
“I’m bisexual. That hasn’t changed because I’m dating your daughter.”
Your father’s jaw moved.
“So the answer is yes.”
“The answer is that attraction does not stop existing simply because someone is in a relationship.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“It is, actually.”
Your father leaned forward.
“All right. Let me rephrase that. Can you be satisfied with her?”
Tom stared at him.
The anger came quietly.
Not explosive.
Not dramatic.
A cold, exhausted anger built from too many interviews, too many conversations and too many people asking him to prove that loving one person meant he had ceased to be himself.
“Yes. Obviously. She is the person I’m with. She is the person I want.”
“But you still have desires she cannot fulfil.”
“Everyone does.”
Your father frowned.
“That sounds evasive.”
“It’s realistic. No partner is every fantasy, every interest and every possible experience another person might imagine. Commitment is not the absence of all other attraction. It is a choice about what you do with it.”
Your father watched him in silence.
Tom’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
He ignored it.
It vibrated again.
Your father glanced down.
“You can answer it.”
“I’d rather not.”
A third vibration.
Tom removed the phone.
The group chat had been renamed.
FRANK had changed the name to: THOMAS RECOVERY FUND
FRANK: Has the stiffness improved?
YOU: No.
FRANK: I did warn him.
YOU: He remains brave.
Tom locked the screen.
Your father’s eyes remained on the phone.
“Work?”
“No.”
“Your daughter?”
“Also no.”
Your father waited.
Tom placed the phone face down on the table.
“It’s not important.”
Just then, you appeared in the library doorway.
“Ah. Did you finish your interrogation?”
Your father nodded.
“For now.”
“Wonderful. I’m stealing my boyfriend then.”
Tom stood, looking visibly relieved.
Once you were safely out in the corridor, he looked at you.
You looked at him.
“Cigarette?”
“Please. Yes.”
You led him outside, away from the house and onto the terrace. Tom had barely lit the cigarette when both your phones vibrated.
So many good shots from this con, but I don't think I've seen this one and his smile is just too bloody perfect. And also his hair is longer so curls. Dimples. I mean, please. I'm going to need 5-7 business days to recover.
And yes, @sluttymorpheus sent me this and a bunch of others at like 6am the other day. And I said thank you. This is how we do.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader, Smut, Threesome
By the time you reached the bedroom, the trail of discarded clothing stretched halfway across the loft.
Tom’s black shirt lay somewhere near the sofa. Frank’s had been abandoned by the kitchen. Your dress had slipped from your body at the foot of the stairs, leaving you in black lace that suddenly felt far more revealing beneath the quiet attention of two men.
Tom entered the room first.
Bare-chested, still wearing his dark jeans, his hair untidy from your fingers and Frank’s hand at the back of his neck. His lips were flushed from kissing both of you, and there was something almost dazed in his expression when he turned.
Frank followed in only his jeans.
He looked entirely too composed for someone whose breathing had become noticeably deeper.
The bedroom was dim, the city lights spilling through the tall windows in ribbons of pale gold. They caught along Tom’s shoulders, the lines of Frank’s chest and the sheer black lace over your skin.
You stopped at the foot of the bed.
For a heartbeat, all three of you simply looked at one another.
The conversation in the other room had made the boundaries clear.
This was about Tom.
You and Frank were not together. You would not kiss or touch one another for your own pleasure.
But you would share him.
The thought sent heat rolling through you all over again.
Tom looked from Frank to you.
“Why do I feel as though I’m being assessed?”
Frank’s gaze moved slowly over him.
“Because you are.”
Tom’s face warmed.
You stepped closer and placed both hands against his chest.
“Positively.”
His attention dropped to the lace covering you.
“You’re not exactly making this easier.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed him.
Tom caught your waist immediately, drawing you against him. His mouth opened over yours with a hunger that had steadily built since the Uber, one hand sliding over the bare skin of your back while the other settled possessively at your hip.
You felt Frank approach before you saw him.
The mattress shifted faintly behind Tom’s legs as Frank stopped close enough for the warmth of his body to enter the narrow space between you.
Tom broke the kiss and looked over his shoulder.
Frank’s eyes were fixed on him.
“Still all right?”
Tom’s hands remained on you.
“Yes.”
You brushed your mouth over his jaw.
“Still want both of us?”
His breathing changed.
“Yes.”
Frank stepped behind him.
Tom stood between you exactly as he had in the car, except there were no coats, no driver and no reason to pretend the arrangement was accidental.
Your body pressed to his front.
Frank’s chest hovered close behind him.
Tom closed his eyes when Frank placed one hand carefully at his waist.
You felt the tremor move through him.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
His eyes opened.
You kissed him again while Frank’s mouth touched the side of his neck.
Tom inhaled sharply against your lips.
Your hands travelled over his chest, feeling every small reaction beneath your palms. Frank kissed slowly along Tom’s throat, unhurried and familiar, while one hand remained steady at his hip.
Tom’s head tilted, granting him greater access before he seemed to realise what he had done.
Frank smiled against his skin.
“You remember.”
Tom’s fingers tightened against your waist.
“Don’t become smug.”
“Far too late.”
You caught Tom’s chin and turned his face back to yours.
“Pay attention.”
He gave you a breathless laugh.
“To which one of you?”
“Both of us.”
You kissed him until the laugh disappeared.
Frank’s hand moved across Tom’s stomach, slow enough that Tom could follow every inch of the touch. You watched Tom’s expression change as Frank explored the body he already knew, while you traced your nails lightly over Tom’s shoulders and chest.
It should have made you jealous.
Instead, the familiarity between them sent a pulse of desire through you so strong that your thighs pressed together instinctively.
Tom noticed.
Even with Frank behind him, even while Frank’s mouth moved against the curve of his shoulder, Tom noticed you.
His gaze dropped to your body.
“You are enjoying this.”
It was not really a question.
You moved closer, letting the lace brush his skin.
“More than I expected.”
Frank lifted his head.
“That sounds promising.”
You looked at him over Tom’s shoulder.
“You’re doing very well.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“I usually do.”
Tom groaned softly.
“There are two impossible egos in this room.”
You kissed him before he could continue.
Frank turned Tom’s face when you drew back, claiming his mouth with the same slow certainty.
You stayed directly in front of Tom, watching.
Frank kissed him deeply but without rushing, one hand cupping the side of Tom’s neck while the other held his waist. Tom responded almost immediately, his body leaning back into Frank even as his hands remained firmly on you.
The sight tightened something low inside you.
Tom’s mouth moving against Frank’s.
The dark contrast of Frank’s hand against his flushed skin.
The way Tom remained connected to you while giving himself over to someone else.
You ran your palms down his chest.
Tom made a quiet sound into Frank’s mouth.
Frank heard it and deepened the kiss.
You leaned forward, pressing your lips to Tom’s shoulder while your hands continued exploring him. His body was warm and tense beneath your touch, caught between Frank’s mouth and your lace-covered body.
When Frank drew back, Tom’s eyes remained half closed.
You touched his cheek.
“Come to bed.”
Tom looked at the mattress.
Then at you.
“You say that as though I have any control over the situation.”
Frank sat on the edge of the bed.
“You have all of it.”
The teasing vanished from his voice.
Tom looked at him.
Frank held his gaze.
“You tell us what you want,” he said. “And you tell us when you want something to stop.”
You took Tom’s hand.
“Always.”
Tom nodded.
Then he allowed you to guide him onto the mattress.
He settled against the pillows, still in his jeans, his chest rising and falling beneath the warm gold light.
You climbed onto the bed beside him, the black lace stark against the pale sheets.
Frank remained near Tom’s legs, watching him closely.
Tom turned his head toward you.
You threaded your fingers through his hair and kissed him, slowly this time, allowing him to relax beneath you. His hand moved over your back, tracing the fragile edge of the lace before settling against your bare waist.
Frank’s hands rested lightly on Tom’s thighs.
Tom tensed.
Frank stopped immediately.
“All right?”
Tom breathed out.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to continue?”
Tom looked at you.
You kissed the corner of his mouth but did not answer for him.
His gaze returned to Frank.
“Yes.”
Frank’s hands moved again.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
You watched Tom’s face while Frank touched him through the dark denim, never moving faster than Tom’s breathing allowed. Tom’s eyes fluttered closed, his jaw tightening as his body reacted beneath the combined attention.
You kissed him.
His mouth opened against yours with a broken breath.
And then you let Frank kiss him again while one of Tom’s hands clutched at your hip while the other found Frank’s wrist, not to stop him, but to keep him there.
Eventually, Frank’s mouth left Tom’s with a soft, wet sound, his lips already tracing a path down Tom’s body. You felt the shift of muscles under the palm you still rested against Tom’s heartbeat. He exhaled a shaky breath, and his fingers tightened on your hipbone, the thin lace no barrier at all.
Frank kissed slowly, reverently, down the sternum, and when his tongue dipped into the hollow at the base of Tom’s throat, Tom’s hips gave an involuntary roll.
Frank hummed, a low vibration against damp skin, and then you watched Frank’s lips move even lower. You watched him push through the thatch of dark hair on Tom’s chest, his lips parting over a flat nipple, sucking just enough to make Tom gasp and arch.
Frank’s hand spread wide, thumb circling the other nipple while his mouth worked, and your own breath caught at the sight—the contrast of Frank’s head against Tom’s pale, flushed skin, the sound of Tom’s stifled groan.
You were still pressed close, your bare waist under Tom’s hand, the lace of your bra suddenly too tight. You turned your head to kiss Tom’s jaw, and as if reading your thought, Tom’s free hand fumbled behind you, searching for the clasp.
His movements were clumsy, lust-drunk, and when the hooks refused to give, you reached back and unclasped it for him, guiding his hand to slide the straps down your arms. The bra fell away, and Tom made a quiet, wrecked sound against your mouth as his palm found your breast. His thumb dragged over the peak, and you moaned into the kiss, all while your eyes stayed fixed on Frank.
Frank glanced up. His teeth scraped lightly over Tom’s ribs, and he held your gaze as his fingers found the buckle of Tom’s belt. The leather slipped through the metal with a familiar, obscene hiss.
Tom’s whole body tensed, but he didn’t look away from you. You kissed the corner of his mouth, whispered nothing sensible, and helped him lift his hips when Frank tugged the jeans down. The denim scraped over his thighs, and Tom’s breath shuddered against your lips when the fabric finally pulled free of his ankles.
Frank tossed the jeans aside without ceremony, and then there was nothing between Tom and the air but the thin cotton of his boxer briefs, and the unmistakable, rigid outline straining the fabric.
Frank didn’t bother hiding his appreciation. He ran a broad palm up Tom’s bare thigh, fingers denting the muscle, then cupped the hard length through the cotton.
Tom’s eyes fluttered shut.
Frank’s voice was low and dark.
“Let her watch while I make you forget how nervous you were.”
A sound escaped you—half gasp, half whimper. The thought burned through your veins.
You watched, mesmerized, as Frank pulled the waistband down, freeing Tom’s cock. It was thick and flushed, the tip already slick and gleaming.
Frank’s hand wrapped around the base, firm and possessive, and your lips parted on a silent prayer. You buried one hand in Tom’s hair, stroking slow and soothing through the tangled strands, and kissed him deeply while Frank lowered his head.
The first press of Frank’s mouth to the crown was almost gentle. A kiss. Then his lips parted, the wet heat of his tongue painting a slick path down the underside, and Tom groaned into your mouth, a broken, desperate sound. You pulled back just enough to look. You had to look.
Frank looked up at you, his lips stretched around Tom’s shaft, and he took him deeper—inch by controlled inch—until Tom’s hand clawed at the sheets and a rough cry tore from his chest.
You stroked through Tom’s hair and watched, utterly captivated. The slide of Frank’s mouth, the way his throat worked, the obscene, rhythmic bob of his head. You’d never seen anything so hot.
The wet sounds, the faint suction, Tom’s trembling thighs—it coiled heat low in your belly until you couldn’t stay silent.
“That’s so fucking hot,” you breathed, the words breaking into a soft moan.
Frank’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he increased his pace, hollowing his cheeks until Tom was making a continuous, garbled noise of pleasure.
Minutes slipped by, measured only in the rise and fall of Tom’s chest and the glistening glide of Frank’s lips.
Tom’s hand found the back of Frank’s head, not pushing, just holding. Then his other hand reached blindly for you, fingers skimming your thigh, and his voice scraped out, raw.
“Sit on my face.”
You went still.
He turned his head, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them, hazy yet focused.
“Sit on my face while you watch.”
The request sent a shock of pure lust straight through you.
You scrambled to peel the lace panties down your legs, kicking them away, and then you moved—positioning yourself above him, knees bracketing his head, sinking down until the first brush of his lips against your bare, soaked cunt made you gasp.
The angle was perfect: your body faced the foot of the bed, which meant you looked directly at Frank, still worshipping Tom’s cock with his mouth. Your thighs quivered. You lowered yourself fully onto Tom’s eager mouth, and his groan vibrated through your clit.
You bit your lip, touching yourself, your breasts, while you watched Frank swallow Tom deeper.
The thought alone was obscene—your boyfriend’s tongue buried in your pussy while another man deep-throated his cock—and you bucked helplessly against Tom’s face.
After a long, delicious moment, Frank released Tom with a wet pop.
He was flushed, lips swollen, a string of saliva connecting them to the tip of Tom’s erection. He smiled at you, a slow, wicked curve that reached his eyes. He held Tom’s cock upright with one hand, the head glistening, and gestured with his chin.
“Do you want to help?” Frank’s voice was a low rasp, his eyes fixed on you over the gleaming length of Tom’s cock. “Because I’m fairly sure there’s room for both of us.”
The air in the room felt thick, charged. You were still straddling Tom’s mouth, his tongue working lazily against your clit, his groans vibrating through your soaked folds. But your gaze was locked on Frank—on the swollen, wet head of Tom’s cock he held upright, on the string of saliva that still connected Frank’s bottom lip to the tip. The sight alone made your inner walls clench around nothing, a fresh pulse of slick heat sliding down onto Tom’s chin.
Your answer came without thought. “Yes.”
You leaned forward, bracing one hand on the mattress beside Tom’s hip, the other reaching to steady yourself on Tom’s thigh. The shift of your hips pressed your cunt harder against Tom’s mouth, and he answered with a hungry groan, his tongue flattening to lap at you from hole to clit. The pleasure shot up your spine, making you gasp, but you didn’t stop moving. You couldn’t. You had to taste.
Frank’s knuckles brushed your chin as he angled Tom’s cock toward your mouth. Up close, the scent of pre-cum and skin was intoxicating—salty, musky, intimate. You saw the tiny bead of clear fluid welling at the slit, the way the shaft pulsed slightly in Frank’s grip. And beneath it, the dark trail of hair leading down to where Frank’s other hand was already stroking Tom’s inner thigh, teasing closer to his balls.
You kissed the tip. Soft, just a press of your lips, tasting the bitterness and the faint, lingering trace of Frank’s mouth. You heard Tom’s breath hitch beneath you, felt his hips try to lift, but Frank held him steady. You licked the slit, a quick flick of your tongue that made Tom whimper into your cunt, his own tongue stuttering against your clit. The dual sensation—his mouth on you, his cock in front of you—made your head swim.
Then you opened wide and took him inside.
The heat and weight of Tom’s cock filling your mouth was obscene. You felt the smooth, velvety skin slide over your tongue, the thick head nudging the roof of your mouth, the way your lips stretched to accommodate him. A soft, wet sound escaped from the corner of your mouth, and you moaned around him without meaning to. Below you, Tom echoed the moan, his hands clamping onto your asscheeks, fingers digging into the flesh as he pulled you down harder onto his tongue.
You looked up at Frank through your lashes, and the image seared itself into your mind: Frank’s dark eyes watching your lips slide down Tom’s shaft, his own lips parted, his breath coming fast. He still held the base, guiding the rhythm, and when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, a bead of sweat rolled from his temple. He was as turned on as you were, his cock visibly straining against his own jeans, a damp patch spreading at the tip. Knowing he was watching, knowing he was just as lost in this, made your arousal spike so sharply you nearly came right then.
Meanwhile, Tom’s tongue was relentless, flicking side to side over your swollen clit, dipping inside your entrance only to drag back up. You bucked against his face, your thighs trembling, the obscene squelch of his tongue mixing with the wet suck of your mouth on his cock. It was filthy, depraved, perfect. You wanted to freeze the moment and live in it forever.
At the same time, Frank shifted lower. You saw him move in your peripheral vision, felt the mattress dip, and then his mouth was pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the base of Tom’s sac. He didn’t rush—he dragged his tongue over the wrinkled skin, traced the seam with slow deliberation, and then sealed his lips around one ball and sucked.
The sound Tom made was inhuman. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest, vibrating through your entire core. His hips bucked, forcing his cock deeper into your throat, and you gagged slightly before relaxing, letting him hit the back. Saliva dripped down your chin, dropping onto Tom’s stomach, onto Frank’s hand. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as Frank’s mouth worked Tom’s balls with the same devotion he’d shown his cock.
You pulled back to breathe, strings of thick saliva connecting your swollen lips to the flushed head. You licked them away, panting, and looked down. The view was staggering: Frank’s head between Tom’s legs, his cheek hollowed with suction, his tongue visibly massaging the tight sac. Tom’s cock, slick, bobbing over Frank’s face. One of Tom’s hands had left your ass and was now fisted in Frank’s hair, gripping tight. And beneath you, Tom’s eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in ecstasy, his mouth still buried in your pussy, chin and nose glazed with your arousal.
You leaned back down and took him again, this time deeper, letting the head of his cock bump the soft palate as you swallowed. Frank’s rhythm on his balls was in perfect counterpoint to your own sucking, and together you drove Tom wild. His thighs were rigid, his abdomen clenching with every pull. You could feel the tension building in his body, the way his tongue became erratic against your clit, the way his moans came faster, needier.
It was the hottest thing you’d ever witnessed. Your own pleasure was a bright, pulsing ache, your cunt throbbing with every heartbeat. You were dripping onto Tom’s face, and he drank you down like you were water. You could feel the wet slide of his tongue up the entire length of your slit, the way he circled your clit with the tip before sucking it between his lips. The pressure was maddening. You ground down against his mouth, chasing your own climax, while your throat worked his cock in greedy, wet pulls.
Frank released Tom’s balls with a soft pop, his chin glistening and you immediately made space for him with an eager moan.
He kissed his way up the base of the shaft, his tongue leaving a shiny trail, until his lips sealed around Tom’s cock once more, tasting your spit on his length, before, eventually, he paused, his mouth still close to Tom’s skin, and looked toward you.
“I think this might be fucking perfect.”
The rough satisfaction in his voice sent heat rushing through you. A moan escaped before you could contain it.
Frank’s smile deepened.
Then, without looking away from you, he guided Tom gently back toward your waiting mouth.
You sealed your lips around Tom’s cock once more, your eyes watering as you doubled your efforts. Your jaw ached, but you didn’t care. The salty-bitter taste, the weight, the desperate sounds from the man whose mouth was eating you alive—it was pure sensory overload.
You saw Frank’s hand move to his own jeans, rubbing himself through the denim as he watched you both. The sight of him touching himself while you sucked his lover’s cock while that lover ate your pussy—it was a closed circuit of lust that had every nerve in your body lit on fire.
For a long, suspended stretch of time, nothing existed but the wet sounds, the shared breaths, the building pressure. You were so close—right on the edge—when Frank suddenly pressed a hand to your shoulder, gentle but firm. He drew you off Tom’s cock with a slick, wet pop, your lips bruised and tingling. Tom made a sound of pure protest, his mouth stilling on your cunt in confusion.
“Let’s not make him cum yet,” Frank murmured, reaching to wipe the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “I really want to be inside him before he does.”
The sentence felt like a shockwave through your gut. A raw, uncontrolled moan tore from you, more animal than human. You shuffled off Tom’s face immediately, your legs so weak you nearly collapsed onto the mattress. The absence of Tom’s tongue left you hollow and aching, your pussy clenching on air, a fresh gush of wetness sliding down your inner thigh.
Tom whined, a sound of deep, profound complaint.
“No, don’t stop…”
His hips were still rolling into nothing, his cock twitching and smearing pre-cum onto his own stomach.
But Frank was already moving, crawling up the bed until he could frame Tom’s face with both of his hands.
He kissed him then, slow and deep, a kiss that stole both their breaths.
You knelt beside them, chest heaving, watching Frank’s tongue slide into Tom’s mouth, tasting you on his lips.
When he drew back, Frank’s voice was a rough, satisfied hum.
“She tastes good on you.”
The blush that flooded your body was instantaneous—heat blooming from your chest up to your hairline. Tom’s eyes found yours, pupils blown so wide the blue was almost gone. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen from eating you. You had never seen him so utterly undone, and the knowledge that you had helped do this to him—with Frank—made you want to see how much further he could break.
Frank didn’t wait. He leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of Tom’s ear, but his words were loud enough to include you.
“I want you on all fours,” he murmured. “Facing her.”
The shift in the room was palpable. Tom’s breath stopped, then came back in a shaky exhale. For a long second, he was completely still, his body taut with a mix of anticipation and genuine nerves. You could read it in the flicker behind his eyes—the newness of this, the vulnerability of being the one penetrated, especially with you watching. In all your time together, you’d never seen him like this: about to yield, about to be taken.
He looked at you. It was a look that asked everything—are you okay with this? do you want this too? is this really happening?—all in the space of a heartbeat.
You let out a pleasure moan, low and undeniably hungry, the kind of sound that answered every question and more. Your gaze was unwavering, your own desire burning bright. You wanted to see Frank inside him.
You wanted to watch Tom’s face as it happened. You wanted to be in this room, a part of this, holding both their hands through the fall.
“I want to watch him make you feel good,” you said, and the way Tom’s pupils dilated made your heart stutter. “I want to see everything.”
Tom held your gaze for another breath.
Then he moved.
Want made him slightly unsteady as he shifted onto his hands and knees in the centre of the mattress. The muscles along his back tightened beneath the low golden light, his breathing visible in every rise and fall of his shoulders.
The sight of him like that—trusting, exposed and choosing to be there—made your mouth go dry.
Frank knelt behind him, still in jeans, the outline of his own erection a thick ridge against the denim.
He placed one hand against Tom’s hip first.
A question.
Tom nodded.
Frank’s other hand followed, tentative despite their history, easing him into position with careful pressure. Tom’s head lowered slightly, a shiver passing along his spine as Frank’s palms spread over him.
“Yes,” Frank murmured, his voice roughening. “Just like that.”
Tom inhaled sharply.
Frank leaned closer, his mouth near Tom’s ear.
“I remember how you like it.”
Tom’s fingers curled into the sheets.
You felt the words low in your body, heat tightening sharply between your thighs as you watched Frank steady him with such practised care.
“Fuck,” you breathed, unable to help yourself.
Tom turned his head toward you.
His face was flushed, his expression open and unmistakably affected by the sight of you watching him.
You moved nearer, reaching for his face.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He did.
You kissed him slowly while Frank remained behind him, one hand firm at his waist and the other moving with deliberate patience.
When you finally drew back, you kept your mouth close to his.
“You are so sexy like this,” you whispered.
Tom’s eyes darkened.
He was flushed and breathless, his composure slipping a little more with every second he remained caught between your praise and Frank’s familiar touch.
“You like watching me?” he asked, his voice unsteady.
You stroked your thumb over his swollen lower lip.
“I love watching you.”
The answer visibly affected him.
His head dipped, a helpless sound leaving him as Frank’s grip tightened reassuringly at his waist.
“She’s not exaggerating,” Frank murmured. “You should see yourself.”
Frank was right.
The sight of him like this—completely bare, completely exposed, his hole a tight pink pucker just visible between the spread of his cheeks—twisted something low and primal in your gut. You pressed your thighs together, a futile attempt to ease the ache, but the slick heat already coating your inner thighs told you it was a lost cause and Tom noticed. Of course he did.
Frank ran both hands over Tom’s ass, palms spanning the firm muscle, thumbs dipping into the cleft and pulling him gently apart. The pose was obscene, reverent, and Tom let out a shaky moan, his fingers curling into the sheets. You couldn’t look away.
And then it happened.
Your breath caught. You watched, frozen, as Frank lowered his head.
The first touch was just a kiss—the soft press of his lips to the tailbone, a trail of fluttering kisses down the cleft.
Tom gasped, his back arching as his head snapped up. His eyes found yours—wide, glassy and searching, the question in them tangled with something far more desperate.
You reached for him immediately, brushing the damp hair back from his forehead before cupping his face.
“Relax,” you whispered. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
His breathing remained uneven.
You leaned closer, making certain he could see the truth in your expression.
“I’m enjoying this,” you assured him softly. “More than enjoying it. Watching you like this is unbelievably hot, Tom. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Some of the uncertainty left his face.
Your thumb stroked slowly across his flushed cheek.
“Just feel it,” you murmured. “Let him make you feel good.”
And so he did.
Frank’s tongue touched him then—a flat, broad stroke from the sensitive skin behind his balls all the way up to the tight furled ring of his hole.
The sound Tom made was inhuman, a ragged groan that seemed to be torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His whole body jolted, his hands fisting the sheets so hard you heard the fabric strain. His cock, hanging heavy and dripping beneath him, swung with the motion, a fresh gush of pre-cum spattering onto the mattress.
You watched, your own pulse pounding between your legs, as Frank did it again. He used the very tip of his tongue this time, tracing the puckered rim with maddening, delicate precision, circling once, twice, before pressing a little firmer against the center.
Tom’s hips bucked back, seeking more, and Frank hummed a low sound of approval that vibrated directly against that most intimate place. Tom cried out, a garbled version of your name tangled with Frank’s, his thighs trembling violently.
The visual was searing itself into your memory. Frank’s head bowed between Tom’s spread cheeks, his jaw working as he sealed his mouth over the hole and sucked gently. You could see the gleam of saliva coating the pink skin, could see Frank’s tongue slip out to lap at it with broad, possessive strokes before stiffening and pushing—pushing inside. The rim stretched, resisted for a heartbeat, and then gave way with an obscene wet sound as the tip of Frank’s tongue breached him.
“Oh god, oh fuck—”
Tom’s voice cracked, his spine bowing almost painfully. You tightened your grip on his hair, not to restrain, but to anchor him. His cock was leaking a steady stream now, a thin, clear rivulet that dripped onto the sheets and pooled beneath him. Every muscle in his body was rigid with pleasure, his face a contorted mask of ecstasy and shock.
You leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear.
“Tell me,” you whispered. “How does it feel?”
Tom tried to answer, but the words dissolved into a broken moan as Frank’s attention grew more insistent behind him. His body trembled, his fingers clutching at the sheets while his eyes remained fixed on yours.
“So good,” he managed, the words fractured by another helpless sound. “God—it feels so fucking good.”
You stroked his damp hair back from his forehead, keeping him anchored to you while Frank continued with slow, practised certainty.
“That’s it,” you murmured. “Let me see how good he makes you feel.”
The wet, sucking sounds filled the room—slurping, greedy noises that spoke of a hunger that would not be denied. Spit dripped down Frank’s chin, trailing over Tom’s perineum and dripping onto the mattress, and he made no move to wipe it away. He was lost in it—in the taste, the texture, the tight clutch of Tom’s body around his tongue.
You watched Frank’s tongue curl and twist, dipping inside only to withdraw and trace the rim again, making it flutter helplessly.
It was the single most erotic thing you had ever witnessed. You could see everything—the way Tom’s hole glistened, puffy and slick with Frank’s spit, the way it gaped slightly when Frank’s tongue retreated, only to contract hungrily when he plunged back in. You could see the tremor in Tom’s thighs, the clench of his glutes, the way his balls had drawn up tight against his body.
You reached between your own legs, sliding your fingers through your soaked lace. The friction was nowhere near enough, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Watching Tom be undone like this—watching him give himself over, watching Frank claim him with his mouth—was pushing you toward an edge you hadn’t known existed. You circled your clit slowly, gasping in time with Tom’s cries, a mirrored pleasure that bound the three of you together.
“So good,” you panted, your voice barely recognisable. “You’re taking it so well, baby.”
Tom’s eyes found yours, dark and unfocused with pleasure.
You stroked your thumb across his flushed cheek.
“Is this what you want?” you whispered. “Do you want Frank to keep going?”
Tom tried to answer, but the words broke apart beneath another helpless sound.
“More,” he managed at last. “I need more.”
Frank paused.
Then he drew back just enough for Tom to feel the loss of him.
Tom made a frustrated sound and looked over his shoulder.
Frank’s mouth curved slowly.
“There he is,” he murmured, satisfaction warming his voice. “I was wondering how long you were going to pretend you were content with the foreplay.”
Tom’s face flushed even deeper.
“I wasn’t pretending.”
“No?”
Frank’s hand settled firmly at his waist.
“You usually become impatient much sooner.”
Tom shut his eyes for a second, caught between embarrassment and need.
Then he looked back at you.
“Tell me. What do you want?” you teased, still stroking his hair.
His answer came as a broken moan before he managed to force out the words.
“I want more.”
“Do you want him inside you?”
Tom opened his mouth, but no answer came.
For a moment, he simply looked at you, flushed and breathless, as though saying it aloud would make the entire night suddenly, dangerously real.
Then he swallowed.
“Yes.”
You leaned closer, brushing your mouth over his temple.
“Then tell him properly.”
Tom swallowed.
His fingers tightened around yours.
“Frank,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady. “Please. I need—”
Frank’s hand tightened at his waist.
“What do you need, Thomas?”
Tom closed his eyes, visibly fighting for enough composure to answer.
When he finally looked back at Frank, there was no hesitation left in his expression.
“I need you inside me.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
He gave Tom one final, teasing touch before drawing back.
“Very well, then.”
Tom collapsed forward slightly, his forehead dropping onto the mattress, his hips still raised, his hole now a loose, wet, inviting pucker that glinted in the low light.
His whole body was trembling, a continuous shudder that spoke of how close he was to breaking entirely. You smoothed a hand down his spine, feeling the heat radiating off him, the muscles jumping beneath your touch.
Meanwhile, Frank reached toward the nightstand and retrieved a foil square. You watched him tear it open with his teeth, the soft crinkle startlingly loud in the quiet room.
Then he straightened and unbuckled his belt.
The metal gave a muted click as he pushed his jeans down and stepped free of them, leaving him bare beneath the low golden light. For the first time, some of his composure slipped under the weight of your attention.
Tom looked back at him.
Frank caught the look and smiled.
“Still sure?”
Tom’s answer came without hesitation.
“Yes.”
Frank freed himself completely then and his hard cock sprang free, dark with need, the head already weeping.
He stroked himself a few times, spreading the natural slickness, and then he carefully, deliberately, rolled the condom down his length. The latex clung to every vein, every ridge, turning the deep flesh tones into a muted, glossy sheen. He reached for a bottle on the nightstand and squeezed a generous amount of lube onto the covered cock, slicking it until it glistened.
Your gaze dropped to Tom’s open, waiting hole. You could still see the gleam of Frank’s spit there, puddled in the little hollows, and your mouth watered at the sight. Frank shifted forward on his knees, positioning himself. The head of his condom-slicked cock nudged against the wet entrance, and Tom sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers clawing at the sheets.
“Look at me,” you commanded softly, and Tom lifted his head with visible effort, his eyes finding yours. They were hazy, wrecked, utterly vulnerable. You held his gaze as Frank pressed forward.
The head caught against the rim—a moment of resistance, of perfect, breathtaking tension. You saw the pink circle of muscle stretch, the tiny opening fluttering before it began to yield. Tom’s eyes went wide, his mouth dropping open on a silent cry, and then the head popped inside with a slick, sucking sound.
The sight of it—that thick, latex-covered crown disappearing into your boyfriend’s body—made your clit throb with a fresh pulse of need. You could see the way Tom’s hole clamped down around the intrusion, the muscle gripping the shaft just behind the flared head. A hot flush spread from Tom’s chest up to his cheeks, and his whole body seemed to tighten around the new fullness.
“Fuck,” Tom whimpered, his voice a thin, reedy thing. But he didn’t look away from you. His eyes stayed locked on yours, and in them you saw the same wonder, the same overwhelming sensation that was flooding your own veins.
Frank stilled, buried just an inch inside, his breath coming in controlled bursts. His hands gripped Tom’s hips, thumbs digging into the dimples at the base of his spine.
“Breathe,” he murmured, the word a command and a caress. “Let it happen.”
Tom exhaled shakily, and as he did, the muscles in his lower back visibly relaxed.
Frank took the invitation and slid deeper, another inch, then another. You watched the shaft sink in slowly, the lubed latex sliding against the spit-slick channel, until Frank’s hips were flush against Tom’s ass. Tom’s hole was stretched impossibly wide around the base of the cock, the rim pale with tension, and the sight was so raw, so intimate, that you had to press the heel of your hand against your cunt just to keep from coming on the spot.
“Fuck. I missed this,” Frank eventually groaned and Tom answered with a rough, helpless sound, his whole body trembling beneath him.
Frank stayed still for a moment, one hand firm at Tom’s hip, letting him breathe.
Then his gaze lifted to you.
“And I think your girlfriend is enjoying the view.”
The words dragged your attention back to the sight of them together.
“I do,” you first said, pressing harder against your clit. “It’s so fucking hot,” you then blurted out, entirely unapologetic.
Tom gave a breathless laugh, but the movement immediately made him tense.
“Fuck, i’s been a while,” he huffed. “Do not move.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“You’re going to be sore tomorrow.”
“That is tomorrow’s problem.”
You leaned closer and kissed Tom then, slow and reassuring, smoothing one hand through his damp hair.
“Still all right?”
He nodded against your mouth.
“Yes. More than alright,” Tom said while Frank waited until he relaxed again.
Only once Tom stopped tensing did he begin to move.
The first withdrawal was slow and shallow, dragging the condom-covered shaft back until just the head remained, before thrusting back in gently.
The motion was hypnotic, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the place where their bodies joined: the rhythmic piston of Frank’s cock, the way Tom’s hole seemed to swallow him greedily, the slick sounds of lube and leftover spit squelching with every stroke.
Tom’s cock bobbed untouched beneath him, a continuous dribble of pre-cum pooling on the mattress.
His face was a study in abandon—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, a soft mantra of “yes, yes, oh fuck yes” spilling from him with every thrust.
After a while, Frank’s pace quickened, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency, and the sound of flesh meeting flesh—a wet, percussive clap—filled the air.
You leaned forward, still stroking yourself, and pressed a kiss to Tom’s shoulder blade. The salt of his sweat burst on your tongue. “I’m right here,” you promised, your lips moving against his heated skin. “I’m not going anywhere. Let him fuck you, baby. Let me watch.”
And he did.
Slowly at first.
Then completely.
You watched the tension leave him piece by piece, replaced by something rawer and more open. Every sound he made went straight through you. Every time he turned his head to find you, you were there—stroking his hair, kissing his shoulder, whispering reassurance against his skin.
You loved seeing him like this.
Loved the trust of it.
Loved the way he allowed himself to be held between you, no longer trying to hide how much he wanted it.
Eventually, Frank’s rhythm slowed, his movements becoming long, measured and deliberate. He leaned forward until his chest pressed against Tom’s back, one hand firm at his waist while his mouth brushed the shell of Tom’s ear.
You saw the shift in Frank’s expression.
The focus.
The intention.
Something darker entered his gaze as he looked at Tom, and you held your breath.
“I want you on your back,” Frank whispered, his voice a rough, intimate growl meant only for Tom. His hips kept moving, a languid grind that made Tom’s eyes roll back. “You’re going to make her come on that pretty face, and I’m going to finish deep inside you. Understand?”
Tom’s response was a strangled, needy sound—not a word, but a plea. His body shuddered, and his hand flew back to grip Frank’s thigh. Frank’s lips curved into a wicked smile against Tom’s skin, and then he slowly, carefully, pulled out.
The drag of his cock leaving Tom’s hole was a visual you’d never forget: the condom glistening with lube and spit, the stretched rim clinging until the last possible second before releasing with a wet, obscene pop.
Tom’s hole gaped for a heartbeat, a dark, open little void that pulsed with his racing heartbeat, before tightening back into a rosy, used pucker.
Tom collapsed onto his forearms, trembling violently, a needy whimper escaping him at the sudden emptiness.
Frank’s hands were gentle but firm as they guided Tom onto his back. You shuffled out of the way, your cunt aching with anticipation, your skin electric with what was to come.
Tom lay spread before you both—legs falling open, his erect cock slapping wetly against his belly, his hole still glossy and slightly open, inviting. The trust in his eyes, the way he reached for you with a shaking hand, made your heart clench.
Frank was already removing the used condom, tying it off and tossing it aside with a single, efficient motion. He retrieved a fresh foil square, tearing it open and rolling a new condom down his still-rock-hard cock. The sight of him slicking it with fresh lube—the shiny coating catching the light as he stroked himself—sent another hot gush of wetness between your thighs.
Frank’s dark eyes found yours. Then he tipped his chin toward Tom’s upturned face.
“Come on, then. Hop on.”
His voice was low and smoky, but the phrasing was so unexpectedly practical that both you and Tom laughed.
“Hop on?” you repeated.
Tom’s mouth twitched.
“Very seductive.”
Frank looked entirely unbothered.
“You understood me.”
You did.
Still smiling, you crawled over Tom and carefully positioned yourself above him. For a moment, you simply looked down.
His face was flushed, his hair damp and disordered, his expression open with anticipation. The sight of him beneath you—trusting, eager and still caught between you and Frank—sent another rush of heat through your body.
Tom was full of desperate hunger then—his lips parted, his tongue already darting out as if he could taste you from the air. You lowered yourself slowly, watching his eyes flutter shut as your slick, swollen pussy made contact with his waiting mouth.
The first lick was a long, flat stroke from your entrance to your clit, and the sensation ripped a gasp from your throat.
Tom groaned against your flesh, the vibration sparking through your nerve endings, and his hands came up to grip your thighs, pulling you harder against his face. You braced your hands on either side of his thighs, your hips beginning a slow, instinctual grind against his tongue, your gaze meeting Frank’s over the expanse of Tom’s body.
Frank knelt between Tom’s spread legs, his newly sheathed cock bobbing, heavy and ready.
“Lift your knees,” Frank said, his voice low and controlled. “Give me better access.”
Tom obeyed, drawing them higher as Frank steadied him with one hand and shifted closer behind him, guiding him carefully into position before continuing.
And within seconds, you felt Tom’s entire body jerk beneath you as Frank pushed inside, the angle different now but his mouth never faltering its rhythm against your cunt.
The squelch of Frank’s re-entry, the way Tom’s groan vibrated up through your core, the sight of Frank’s hips flush against Tom’s ass—it was all too much, too perfect.
The new position was obscenely beautiful. From your vantage point above Tom, you could see everything. Tom’s cock, a rigid, weeping tower, bounced with every one of Frank’s deep thrusts. Tom’s hole, stretched wide around the base of the condom, seemed to pull at Frank’s shaft every time he withdrew, as if begging to be filled again. And the sounds—Frank’s guttural grunts, Tom’s muffled moans into your pussy, the wet slap of skin on skin—formed a symphony of depraved pleasure.
You decided to add to it. Leaning forward, you lowered your upper body until your mouth hovered over the leaking tip of Tom’s cock. The head was weeping, glazed with a constant stream of pre-cum, and without hesitation, you wrapped your lips around him and sucked.
Tom screamed into your cunt, his hips bucking up into your mouth. The vibration of his cry against your clit sent a shockwave through your system, and you moaned around his shaft, taking him deeper.
Bobbing your head in rhythm with Frank’s thrusts, you created a chain of pleasure: Frank pounding into Tom, Tom’s tongue fucking into you, your mouth swallowing Tom’s cock. Every thrust Frank delivered into Tom’s ass shoved Tom deeper down your throat and pressed his tongue harder against you.
The visual of it all—watching Frank’s thick cock disappear into Tom’s gaping, glistening hole, feeling Tom’s face contort with a mixture of ecstasy and desperation beneath your cunt, feeling the wet suction of his mouth on your clit—combined with the physical sensations tearing through your body, pushed you past all control.
Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave within mere minutes. It started as a tightening coil in your lower belly, then exploded outward, seizing every muscle in your body. You came with a hoarse, ragged scream, your hips grinding down onto Tom’s face as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Tom’s mouth didn’t relent, prolonging your climax, drawing out every shudder and spasm until you were a sobbing, trembling mess.
And through it all, you didn’t stop sucking Tom’s cock.
A moan vibrated against him as Frank’s movements drew another broken sound from his throat. Tom’s whole body tightened between you, his hands clutching at the sheets while his breathing dissolved into uneven gasps.
The reaction only made you more eager.
You kept on sucking him hard after your orgasm seemed to have triggered something in him.
After a little while, he couldn’t hold back any longer. His body went rigid and his hole began spasming wildly around Frank’s thrusting cock. With a final, desperate cry into your cunt, Tom’s release shot hot and thick into your mouth. You swallowed him down greedily, feeling every pulse of his orgasm on your tongue, the bitter saltiness flooding your senses.
In turn, the clench of Tom’s ass—a rhythmic, milking grip—pushed Frank over the edge too. He let out a primal roar as he came, his hips stuttering as he drove deep one final time, grinding into Tom as he emptied himself into the condom.
You could see the muscles in Frank’s abdomen quiver with the force of his release, could feel the tremor that rocked through Tom’s entire frame as he was filled.
For a long moment, the only sounds were ragged breathing and the slick, wet aftermath of three bodies tangled together. You lifted your mouth from Tom’s softening cock with a soft pop, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to the tip before you pulled off him completely and collapsed by his side.
Frank slowly, carefully, pulled out of Tom’s thoroughly used hole, his cock still sheathed in the condom, now heavy with his seed. Tom’s hole gaped and fluttered, a well-fucked void that glistened with lube and his own spit, the sight so lewdly beautiful it made your spent cunt clench one last time as you watched.
Tom swore at the sudden loss, which turned intp a breathless laugh. His lips were swollen, his hair damp and disordered, and a smile of pure, exhausted bliss curved across his face.
“Fuck.”
Frank removed the condom and glanced back at him.
“Yes,” he said, equally breathless. “I think ‘fuck’ is probably the correct word for that.”
Tom let himself relax, still trying to catch his breath.
Frank disappeared briefly into the bathroom, disposed of the condom and returned with a bottle of water. He handed it to Tom before lowering himself onto the mattress beside you both.
Tom drank half of it in one go.
Then he stared at the ceiling.
“I think I died.”
You stroked the damp hair away from his forehead.
“You seem remarkably talkative for a dead man.”
“I died and went to heaven.”
Frank settled beside him and ran one hand slowly along Tom’s side, the gesture unexpectedly tender after everything that had come before.
Tom leaned faintly into the touch.
You stole the water bottle from his hand and took a long drink.
“Thank you,” you said, looking at Frank.
Frank’s expression softened.
“Sorry. That was… a lot.”
Tom let out a tired laugh.
“That may be the understatement of the evening.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“And yet you never used to want only one round.”
Tom turned his head toward him.
“I’m forty.”
“You were hardly eighteen the last time.”
Frank paused.
“In fact, you were forty then too.”
Tom gave him a flat look.
“I also couldn’t walk properly the next day, and it’s nearly two in the morning.”
You shifted closer, still pleasantly dazed.
“I could manage another round.”
Both men looked at you.
Tom blinked.
“Of course you could.”
You smiled.
“That sounded judgemental.”
“It was admiration mixed with genuine concern.”
Frank glanced toward the clock.
“He’s right. It is two in the morning.”
You groaned and dropped your forehead against Tom’s shoulder.
“Oh, shit. We have to drive to my parents’ house tomorrow.”
“Today,” Tom corrected.
You lifted your head.
“That was unnecessary.”
“Accuracy matters.”
Frank rested back against the pillows.
“A quick shower, then.”
You looked at him.
“A shower?”
His expression became entirely innocent.
“Yes.”
Tom stared at him.
Then at you.
You raised your eyebrows.
Frank’s mouth curved.
“It is a very nice shower.”
Tom continued looking between you both, visibly attempting to make the responsible decision.
He failed.
“Fuck it,” he said at last, pushing himself upright with a wince. “All right.”
Frank stood and offered him a hand.
Tom accepted it, then paused.
“But if either of you says ‘hop on’ again, I’m leaving.”
You laughed as Frank pulled him to his feet.
“No promises,” Frank said.
Tom shook his head and followed him toward the bathroom.
You stepped through the doorway behind them, took one look at the enormous glass shower and stopped.
“Oh my God. You really do have a nice shower.”
Frank opened the door with a flourish.
“Definitely enough space for three.”
His gaze travelled over both of you.
“Possibly four.”
Tom stared at him.
“Right. Three is already quite enough.”
You stepped into the shower and glanced back over your shoulder.
“Maybe we could build up to four.”
Tom looked at you in disbelief.
“Excellent idea. Why stop there? We could organise an entire orgy.”
You considered it with exaggerated seriousness.
“That sounds like a lot of admin.”
Frank turned on the water.
“Tom loves admin.”
“I absolutely do not.”
You smiled as the water began to steam around you.
“So that’s not a definite no to the orgy then?”
Tom stepped beneath the spray, pointing a warning finger at both of you.
“It is a definite no to discussing a fourth person before I’ve recovered from the two currently exhausting me.”
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Oooh we're doing a flashback today. He's absurdly adorable even in this very 2010 coded getup. The hair alone.... @sluttymorpheus sent me this yesterday and we determined that this could go soccer mom with some strategically placed blonde highlights...which is absolutely sending me and I can't unsee it.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader, Smut, Threesome
The Uber arrived within four minutes.
Tom looked at the back seat as though it had been designed specifically to humiliate him. Frank opened one door. You opened the other.
There was a brief silence. Then Tom looked from you to Frank.
“Why am I in the middle?”
You gestured impatiently toward the seat.
“Because we both enjoy your presence.”
Frank climbed in from the opposite side, leaving Tom no choice but to lower himself between you.
The seat was technically wide enough for three adults. Technically. In practice, Tom’s thigh pressed along yours while his other leg rested against Frank’s.
The driver glanced into the mirror.
“Soho?”
Frank confirmed the address. The car pulled away from the kerb. Tom folded his hands in his lap. You looked down at them.
“You look very tense.”
“I am sitting between two people who seem unusually smug.”
Frank settled back against the door.
“I’m always smug, and I’m fairly sure I have every reason to be.”
“Yes. And your smugness is one of your least attractive qualities.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“Interesting choice of wording.”
Tom’s head turned slowly toward him.
“Don’t.”
You leaned closer to Tom.
“He’s right.”
“About what?”
“You called him attractive.”
“I said one of his qualities was unattractive. That is not the same thing.”
Frank looked past Tom toward you and laughed while you placed your hand lightly on Tom’s knee.
His entire argument disappeared.
Frank noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His eyes dropped briefly to your hand before returning to the view outside the window, his expression carefully neutral.
Tom looked at you.
“What are you doing?”
“Comforting you.”
“I don’t need comforting.”
Your thumb moved once over his knee.
“You seemed distressed about the seating arrangement.”
Tom’s jaw tightened, though the corner of his mouth threatened to lift.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I’m enjoying you.”
That silenced him properly.
The passing streetlights moved across his face, catching the colour beginning to rise along his cheekbones.
And then you leaned in and kissed him.
It was meant to be brief.
A small reassurance. A soft press of your mouth against his.
Tom turned toward you before you could pull away, deepening it instinctively. His hand came to your waist, awkward in the confined space but firm enough to draw you closer against his side.
Frank immediately turned his head toward the window.
The exaggerated speed with which he did it made you smile against Tom’s mouth.
Tom felt it.
He pulled back slightly.
“What?”
You glanced past him.
Frank was studying a closed takeaway shop with tremendous concentration.
“Nothing.”
Tom followed your gaze.
“Frank.”
“I’m giving you privacy.”
“Privacy?”
Frank’s reflection in the window smiled.
“Yes, I was trying to be respectful.”
You rested your chin briefly against Tom’s shoulder and laughed.
“Well, I appreciate your respectfulness, but I’m more than happy for you to watch us kiss.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“Dangerous thing to say to a photographer.”
Tom shifted, which only pressed his thigh more firmly against yours and his shoulder into Frank’s.
Frank glanced down at the point where they touched.
“Comfortable?”
“No.”
“You used to be far less concerned about having your leg against mine.”
Tom closed his eyes.
You bit back a laugh.
“Frank.”
“What?”
“Behave.”
Frank finally turned away from the window.
“I’m having a very difficult time behaving with this seating arrangement.”
You glanced down at the way his leg remained pressed against Tom’s.
“I can tell.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Tom shook his head, though the colour rising along his neck betrayed him.
Something shifted in Frank’s expression.
Small. Amused. Familiar.
The air in the back seat changed.
It was subtle enough that the driver seemed not to notice, but you felt Tom’s body become still beside you.
Frank’s gaze lingered on him for half a second too long.
Tom looked away first.
You watched both of them.
There was history in the silence. Not romance, perhaps. Not even regret. Something more physical and uncomplicated, but no less intimate for that. A knowledge of each other that remained lodged beneath the jokes.
You slid your fingers between Tom’s.
He looked down.
Then at you.
His hand closed around yours.
Frank’s attention dropped to your joined hands.
“Very domestic,” he murmured.
Tom’s thumb moved across your knuckles.
“Jealous?”
The question sounded teasing.
Mostly.
Frank considered him.
“Would you like me to be?”
Tom’s mouth opened.
You laughed before he could find an answer.
“You two are ridiculous.”
“He started it,” Tom said.
“You asked if I was jealous.”
“Because you made a domesticity comment.”
“Because you were holding hands in my peripheral vision.”
“Should we stop?” you asked.
Frank met your eyes over Tom’s shoulder.
“I didn’t say that.”
The ride lasted only fifteen minutes, but by the time the car turned into Soho, Tom had stopped complaining about being in the middle.
His hand remained wrapped around yours.
His leg stayed pressed to Frank’s.
And none of you moved away.
Ten minutes later…
Frank’s loft occupied the upper floor of an old building tucked above a closed record shop. The entrance was narrow and easily missed, its dark-painted door squeezed between a restaurant and a small gallery.
You climbed a steep staircase that smelled faintly of dust, old paint and someone’s late-night cooking. Frank went first, one hand trailing over the banister. Tom followed behind him.
You came last and had an excellent view of both of them.
Tom glanced over his shoulder.
He caught you looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re staring at my arse.”
Frank continued climbing.
“She’s only human.”
Tom nearly missed a step.
“Could you not encourage her?”
“I don’t think she requires encouragement.”
You placed a hand against Tom’s lower back and gently pushed.
“Keep moving.”
He looked back at you again, cheeks warm.
“You are becoming unbearable.”
“You love me.”
His expression softened despite himself.
“Unfortunately.”
At the top of the stairs, Frank unlocked the door and reached inside for the lights.
The loft brightened gradually, pools of warm light spreading across white brick and polished concrete.
The space was larger than you had expected. High ceilings crossed by dark beams. Tall industrial windows looking out over Soho’s rooftops, their glass reflecting the lamps inside. Books and photography equipment occupied every available surface. Framed prints leaned against walls beside unfinished contact sheets, while others were clipped to boards or stacked carefully on the floor.
It looked chaotic at first.
Then you noticed how deliberate everything was.
A grey cat emerged from beneath a long wooden table.
He stopped when he saw the three of you.
His tail flicked once.
Then he walked straight past you and Frank toward Tom.
Tom looked down as the cat pressed his body against his ankle.
You stared.
Tom crouched automatically and scratched beneath the cat’s chin.
“The cat remembers you.”
Colour rose almost immediately along Tom’s neck.
“Apparently.”
Frank removed his coat and hung it near the door.
“He remembers anyone who feeds him.”
Tom glanced up.
“I fed him once.”
Frank looked at you.
“For an entire week.”
Tom straightened.
“You were in Berlin.”
“And you volunteered.”
“You said he would die.”
Frank’s expression remained perfectly serious.
“He was emotionally fragile.”
The cat wound around Tom’s legs again, purring loudly.
You folded your arms.
“How domestic.”
Tom pointed at you.
“That word is being overused tonight.”
Frank moved past him toward the small open kitchen and then glanced over one shoulder.
“Drink?”
Tom muttered something beneath his breath.
You followed Frank into the kitchen.
“Yes. What have you got?”
“Whiskey.”
You waited.
Frank waited too.
“That’s it?”
He opened a cupboard.
Inside were at least ten bottles.
“I have ten different kinds.”
Tom came up behind you, close enough that his chest brushed your shoulder.
“Most of them are cask strength and capable of burning through your internal organs, so I would be cautious.”
Frank selected a bottle.
“You always drank them without complaint.”
“I added water.”
“Yes, which, I may add, still baffles me.”
You laughed.
Frank placed the whiskey on the counter.
“I have wine too.”
Tom made a sceptical sound.
Frank opened another cupboard and produced a dusty bottle from the back.
“Some idiot brought this over once, and no one drank it.”
Tom rolled his eyes.
“It’s a good bottle.”
You took it from Frank and studied the label.
“That actually is a good bottle.”
Tom looked at Frank.
“Yes. Thank you. That’s why I brought it.”
You glanced between them.
“Ah. So you’re the idiot.”
Frank took the bottle back.
“Tom knows I don’t drink wine unless I’m under duress.”
You looked at Frank.
“Do you at least have wine glasses?”
“No. But I have mugs.”
You considered that for a moment, then handed the bottle back.
“Whiskey it is, then. Thanks.”
Frank found three glasses and poured the whiskey instead.
You watched the two of them.
Their exchanges had a rhythm to them. Easy, sharp and practiced. They knew where to press and when to retreat. They also seemed incapable of standing near each other without some quieter conversation happening beneath the obvious one.
There were pieces of Tom here.
Old pieces.
A version of him who had stood barefoot in this kitchen before you knew him. Who had fed Frank’s cat, criticised his alcohol and probably smoked by the windows after midnight after sex.
Mostly.
You touched his arm.
“Relax. This is good.”
Tom looked down at your hand, then at you.
“I am relaxed.”
Frank handed you a glass.
“He isn’t.”
Tom rolled his eyes.
“I am.”
You accepted the drink.
“You’re not, darling.”
Tom sighed.
“You’re both exhausting.”
You slipped one arm through Tom’s and the other through Frank’s, linking yourself between them.
“All right. Photographs. Come on.”
Frank glanced down at your arm threaded through his, visibly amused, before leading you both through the loft.
The new series looked completely different in print. Details that vanished on a phone screen became almost overwhelming at scale: the indentation left in a pillow, the reflection of an unseen figure in a hotel mirror, a half-empty glass beside an unmade bed, the blurred silhouette of someone standing beneath a streetlight.
The images felt private despite showing very little.
Perhaps because they suggested more than they revealed.
You moved slowly between them.
Tom remained close at first, his hand resting occasionally at the small of your back. Every time Frank leaned over to point out a detail, Tom’s fingers seemed to settle more firmly against you.
Frank noticed that too.
He noticed everything.
“Possessive tonight?” he asked mildly.
Tom’s hand paused against your back.
“No.”
Frank looked at where he was touching you.
Then at Tom.
“Of course not.”
You tipped your head back to look at him.
“He’s always possessive.”
Tom frowned.
“I am standing next to you.”
“With your hand on me.”
He started to remove it.
You caught his wrist and put it back.
Frank’s eyebrows lifted.
“That clarified matters.”
Tom looked at you, and the irritation in his face dissolved into something warmer and more dangerous.
“You’re doing this deliberately.”
“Doing what?”
“You know what.”
Frank walked backward toward the next photograph.
“She’s been doing it since we left Leo’s and Arthur’s house.”
Tom’s gaze stayed on yours.
“I noticed.”
The words were quiet.
Your body responded to the tone before your mind had properly registered it.
Frank stopped beside another print and looked between you.
“Do you need a minute?”
Tom finally turned toward him.
“To look at the photographs?”
“That was certainly one option.”
The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched.
He let his hand slide away from your back, but not before his fingertips dragged lightly over the fabric of your clothes.
You followed Frank deeper into the loft.
Tom became less attached to your side as the conversation turned technical. He and Frank began discussing exposure, grain and one photograph Tom thought had been printed too dark.
Their disagreement was quiet and familiar.
You liked listening to them.
Frank became more animated when discussing his work, all lazy confidence replaced by focus. Tom challenged him without hesitation, leaning closer to examine the print, his shoulder nearly brushing Frank’s.
Neither appeared conscious of the distance between them.
Or perhaps they were far too conscious of it.
Near the far corner of the loft, several smaller photographs rested against the wall, partially hidden behind a larger framed image.
One caught your attention.
You stepped closer.
It was Tom.
You recognised him immediately despite the angle.
He sat on the floor beside one of the tall windows, one knee drawn upward, a cigarette held loosely near his mouth. He looked younger.
But not really.
Just less guarded.
His hair was untidy. His shirt partly unbuttoned. He was staring through the window, apparently unaware of the camera.
In the next photograph, he lay stretched along Frank’s sofa with one arm over his eyes and his shirt pushed slightly up his stomach.
Another showed him in the kitchen, shirtless, looking over his shoulder toward whoever held the camera. His expression was halfway between annoyance and amusement.
It was the familiarity of it that caught at you.
Not simply the lack of clothing.
Frank had known exactly when to press the shutter.
You glanced back.
“Is that Tom?”
Frank followed your gaze.
“Yes.”
Tom went still behind you.
Frank set down his glass.
“They’re private. They were never intended for an exhibition, obviously.”
You looked at Tom.
“May I?”
Frank looked at him too.
The question belonged entirely to Tom.
He hesitated.
His gaze moved over the photographs, then back to you.
“Yes.”
You crouched in front of them.
There was nothing explicitly sexual about the images.
They were intimate anyway.
Perhaps more intimate because of it.
Frank had captured a version of Tom who was not performing, posing or protecting himself from observation. He looked exhausted in one. Amused in another. In the photograph beside the window, his expression was distant but completely open.
You picked it up carefully by the edges.
“Wow.”
Tom shifted behind you.
“What?”
You looked over your shoulder.
“They’re really good.”
His ears had gone pink.
Frank leaned one shoulder against the wall.
“He hated that one.”
“I did not hate it.”
“You said you looked miserable.”
“I was miserable.”
You studied the photograph again.
“You look beautiful.”
Tom stared at you.
The room went very quiet.
Frank reached for his whiskey.
“I’m going to feed the cat.”
You looked up at him.
“Convenient.”
“He becomes violent when hungry.”
The cat was sitting patiently near the kitchen.
Frank walked away, and the cat followed him with immediate enthusiasm.
You replaced the photograph carefully and stood.
Tom remained near the windows, both hands pushed into his pockets.
You collected your drink and went to him.
For a moment, you stood together watching Frank open a tin while the cat shouted instructions from the floor.
Then you spoke quietly.
“Are you still attracted to him?”
Tom’s head snapped toward you.
“What?”
You took a sip.
“Frank.”
His entire body stiffened.
“I never had feelings for him, Y/N. Not like that.”
“Tom.”
“We were friends. We slept together occasionally, but I was never in love with him.”
You placed your glass on the windowsill.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He stopped.
You moved closer.
“I asked whether you still find him attractive.”
Tom looked toward the kitchen.
Frank had his back to you, occupied with the cat’s food, though you suspected his hearing had become exceptionally good.
Tom’s gaze returned to you.
“That is a different question.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because I’m curious.”
His expression sharpened with immediate suspicion.
“Your curiosity has recently become dangerous.”
You smiled.
“Attraction isn’t a bad thing.”
“I know.”
“I’m attracted to women sometimes. It doesn’t mean I fall in love with them or want to leave you.”
Tom studied your face, searching for jealousy or fear.
He found neither.
Finally, he exhaled.
“Yes.”
Your eyebrows rose.
“Yes?”
He looked briefly away.
“I obviously still find him attractive.”
The answer seemed to cost him something, though not because he regretted it.
Because he was waiting to see what it did to you.
You nodded.
“Okay.”
His forehead creased.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.”
“A scene?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Perhaps questions.”
You glanced toward Frank.
He was crouched beside the cat, scratching behind his ears and muttering that he was overweight.
“He likes women too, doesn’t he?”
Tom’s expression changed.
“Yes.”
“You, him and Anya?”
Tom went still again.
His eyes shifted toward Frank.
“Occasionally.”
“All three of you?”
“A few times.”
You absorbed that.
The image arrived too easily: Tom between them, younger and less guarded, giving himself over to something uncomplicated.
Your pulse quickened.
“What would you think about you, Frank and me?”
Tom did not move.
From the kitchen came the quiet scrape of a spoon against a cat-food tin.
“What?”
You kept your voice low.
“Not necessarily me having sex with him.”
Tom’s lips parted.
You had his complete attention now.
“I’m not sure I want that,” you continued.
His eyes searched yours.
“Then what are you suggesting?”
You moved closer until there was barely any space between you.
Tom’s hands came out of his pockets.
“I think I might want to watch you with him.”
His breathing stopped for a second.
You touched the front of his jumper, smoothing the fabric beneath your fingers.
“Actually watch. Not a video. Not imagine it.”
His gaze darkened.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
His hand settled at your waist.
He did not pull you closer yet.
He simply held you there, fingers spread against your side as though he needed something solid beneath his hand.
“And while I watched…”
You hesitated, not from embarrassment but because saying it aloud made the thought suddenly real.
Tom waited.
His thumb moved once against your waist.
“I’d want you involved with me too,” you said quietly. “Touching me. Kissing me. I could help.”
His fingers tightened.
“Help?”
You looked up at him.
“You know.”
His pupils widened.
You leaned closer, your mouth near his ear.
“I’d want to see you let him take control while you still belonged to me.”
Tom inhaled sharply.
His hand slid around your back and pulled you firmly against him.
When you drew away enough to see his face, he looked stunned.
Stunned, flushed and unmistakably affected by the idea.
“Jesus Christ,” he said softly.
You smiled.
“Bad?”
His eyes flicked toward Frank and returned immediately to you.
“No.”
The answer came rougher than he intended.
You lifted your eyebrows.
Tom stepped closer, pressing you back against the edge of the windowsill. His body settled against yours while one hand remained firmly at your waist.
“Definitely not bad.”
You traced the neckline of his jumper.
“Would you want it?”
Tom’s eyes moved over your face.
“You watching?”
“Yes.”
“You touching me?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“And Frank?”
You glanced toward the kitchen.
Frank was no longer crouched beside the cat.
He stood at the counter with his back to you, very deliberately rinsing the spoon.
“That would depend on Frank.”
Tom looked toward him too.
“He can probably hear us.”
“I assumed he could.”
Tom’s gaze snapped back to yours.
A slow understanding moved across his face.
“You wanted him to hear.”
You smiled without answering.
From the kitchen, Frank spoke.
“Are you two discussing the photographs or having a private crisis?”
Tom did not look away from you.
“Both,” you called back.
Frank turned from the sink, drying his hands slowly on a tea towel.
His gaze travelled from your face to Tom’s hand at your waist.
Then down to the narrow space—or complete absence of it—between your bodies.
“Anything I can assist with?”
Tom’s fingers flexed against you.
You looked at Frank over his shoulder.
“Possibly.”
Frank became very still.
Only for a moment.
Then his mouth curved.
“Good,” he said. “I was beginning to think you only came for the photographs.”
You felt Tom’s hand tighten at your waist.
“The photographs were the official reason,” you said.
Frank placed the tea towel on the kitchen counter.
“And the unofficial reason?”
You looked at Tom.
He had gone very still beside you, but he did not look frightened. His face was flushed, his eyes darker than they had been a few minutes ago. Beneath your palm, his heart beat rapidly enough that you could feel it through his shirt.
“The unofficial reason is you, which is something we should talk about first,” you said.
Frank’s expression changed immediately.
The teasing remained, but it softened around the edges.
“Yes,” he said. “We should.”
He did not move any closer.
That mattered.
Instead, he leaned back against the counter, giving you and Tom space while keeping his attention on both of you.
Tom cleared his throat.
“This feels remarkably formal all of a sudden.”
“It should be slightly formal,” you said. “We’ve never done this before.”
Frank lifted one eyebrow.
“You haven’t.”
Tom gave him a warning look.
“Do not become insufferable now.”
“I’m trying to establish my credentials.”
You pressed your lips together, attempting not to laugh.
Frank looked at you.
“He always becomes sarcastic when he’s nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
You and Frank looked at him simultaneously.
Tom exhaled.
“Fine. I’m slightly nervous.”
You turned fully toward him.
“Do you want this?”
His attention settled on you.
The room seemed quieter after the question.
Even Frank stopped smiling.
Tom’s hand moved from your waist to your hip, holding you with deliberate steadiness.
“Yes.”
“Because you want it?”
“Yes.”
“Not because I suggested it?”
His expression softened.
“You suggesting it certainly helped.”
“Tom.”
He brushed his thumb over your side.
“I want it.”
You searched his face.
There was nervousness there, but there was also unmistakable anticipation. You had seen the same expression before difficult scenes, premieres and moments when he wanted something badly enough that admitting it made him vulnerable.
“All right,” you said.
Tom looked toward Frank.
Frank remained against the counter.
“And you?” Tom asked.
Frank’s gaze moved slowly over him.
“You already know I want you.”
The directness of it sent another flush across Tom’s face.
Frank continued before Tom could retreat into humour.
“But I’m not interested in complicating what the two of you have. I’m not here to test it, compete with it or interfere with it.”
Tom’s shoulders loosened slightly.
You watched Frank carefully.
“There would be nothing between you and me, Frank,” you said. “Not sexually.”
“I understood that. Trust me.”
“And you’re genuinely all right with it?”
Frank looked almost amused by your concern.
“You’re offering to share your very handsome boyfriend with me,” he said slowly. “And I assume the general idea is that we’ll both be having fun with him at the same time. Yes?”
The bluntness of it sent a visible shiver through Tom.
You felt his fingers tighten around yours.
“Yes,” you said, then rushed on before you could overthink it. “I mean, you can do the things you used to do with him. Within reason. Tom’s reason, obviously, not mine. He gets the final say. I’m not issuing you some sort of unlimited licence.”
Tom chuckled at the breathless way you delivered it, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
Then he glanced between you and Frank.
“Very generous of you both to remember that part.”
You squeezed his hand.
Then you continued on.
“But I don’t only want to watch,” you continued, looking at Frank. “I want to be part of it. With Tom. I want to touch him and kiss him while you’re with him. I want us to share him, not for me to sit in a chair on the other side of the room.”
Frank considered that, his gaze lingering on the way you stood pressed against Tom.
Then he nodded.
“In that case, yes.”
Your eyebrows rose.
“That easily?”
“Absolutely. I don’t think I could manage a purely voyeuristic scenario anyway.”
You tilted your head.
“Why not?”
Frank’s expression became solemn.
“Performance anxiety.”
You laughed.
Tom stared at him.
“Performance anxiety?”
“Terrible affliction.”
“You’ve never experienced performance anxiety in your life.”
“You don’t know what private battles I’ve fought.”
Tom gave him a flat look.
“Unfortunately, I know rather a lot about your private activities.”
Frank’s smile broadened.
“Exactly. So you understand how courageous I’ve been.”
You laughed again, leaning more heavily into Tom’s side.
“Good,” you said. “No standing in the corner watching ominously, then.”
“Yes,” Frank agreed. His amusement softened as he looked between you both. “And if at any point it stops being good—for either of you, or for me—we stop. Immediately. No arguments, no embarrassment and no hard feelings.”
Tom studied him.
Frank held his gaze without joking this time.
“Agreed,” Tom said.
You nodded.
“Agreed.”
Frank glanced at Tom’s hand resting at your waist.
“Anything else?”
You looked at Tom.
His face was flushed, but he appeared calmer now that the shape of the evening had been spoken aloud. There was still tension in the set of his shoulders, although it no longer felt like uncertainty.
It felt like anticipation.
“You’re the person in the middle of this,” you told him. “You decide how far it goes.”
Tom looked at you for a long moment.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
“In the middle again.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“You survived the Uber.”
“Barely.”
“You stopped complaining eventually.”
“Because neither of you listened.”
You caught the front of Tom’s shirt and drew him toward you.
“We were distracted by your presence.”
Then you kissed him properly.
Tom responded immediately.
His hand rose to the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as his mouth moved over yours. The kiss was warmer than the one in the car, no longer constrained by a driver, narrow seats or the pretence that the evening had an innocent purpose.
His other arm tightened around your waist, drawing you fully against him.
You felt some of the tension leave his body.
Not all of it.
Enough.
When you drew back, you kept your forehead against his.
“Still yes?”
His eyes remained fixed on your mouth.
“Still yes.”
You kissed him once more, softly, before turning your head toward Frank.
Frank had not moved.
He watched you both with his arms loosely folded, his expression intent but restrained. There was desire in the way his attention rested on Tom, but no impatience.
He was waiting.
You appreciated that more than you could say.
“And you understand that he remains mine?” you asked.
Tom gave a quiet, startled laugh.
“Subtle.”
Frank’s eyes met yours.
“Completely.”
“That sounded very confident.”
“It isn’t a difficult concept.”
His attention shifted back to Tom.
“He’s been yours since New York apparently.”
Tom’s face coloured again.
You looked up at him, pleased.
“Good answer.”
“I occasionally have them.”
Frank pushed away from the counter.
He crossed the space between you slowly, his attention remaining on Tom.
The atmosphere thickened with every step.
Tom’s fingers moved against your back in a small, involuntary flex. You stayed beside him, your body pressed against his side and your palm resting over the unsteady beat of his heart.
Frank stopped in front of him.
Close enough that the space between their bodies felt deliberate.
Tom stood between you, one side warm against yours while Frank occupied the air directly in front of him.
For several seconds, neither man moved.
Frank’s gaze travelled over Tom’s face before dropping unmistakably to his mouth.
Tom noticed.
His lips parted slightly.
You felt his breathing deepen beneath your hand.
Frank looked at you once.
Not for permission.
That had already been discussed and given.
It was an acknowledgement that you were there—that Tom was yours, and that all three of you understood exactly what was about to happen.
You smiled and Frank returned his attention to Tom, then took one final, measured step closer.
“Hello again,” he said softly.
Tom gave him the faintest, nervous laugh.
“That’s a terrible line.”
“You used to like my terrible lines.”
“I tolerated them.”
“Repeatedly.”
Tom’s mouth twitched.
The familiarity of the exchange made your pulse race.
Frank lifted one hand.
He moved slowly, allowing Tom every opportunity to retreat, before resting his fingers against the side of Tom’s neck.
Tom inhaled.
Frank’s thumb settled beneath his jaw.
The touch looked natural.
Practised.
Tom’s head tilted almost imperceptibly into Frank’s palm before he seemed to realise he had done it.
Frank noticed.
Of course he did.
His expression softened with something dangerously close to fond amusement.
He did not comment, but the flush across Tom’s face deepened anyway.
You slid your arm around Tom’s waist, holding him more securely.
Tom glanced at you.
You did not tease him.
You simply looked at him, letting him see exactly what the moment was doing to you.
The embarrassment in his expression eased.
Desire replaced it.
You leaned in and kissed the line of his jaw.
His eyes closed briefly.
Your mouth moved to the sensitive place below his ear while your fingers spread over his stomach, feeling the muscles tighten beneath his shirt.
Frank watched you touch him.
His thumb traced Tom’s jaw once and then he leaned closer.
The movement was gradual enough that the anticipation became almost unbearable.
Their noses brushed.
Tom’s fingers tightened at your hip.
Then Frank kissed him.
Softly at first.
A careful press of mouths, restrained despite everything that had been said.
Tom remained still for half a second.
Then his lips moved against Frank’s.
Recognition passed through both men.
You saw it in the way Tom’s shoulders loosened and in the way Frank’s fingers shifted higher behind his neck. The kiss deepened slightly, still unhurried, their mouths relearning something their bodies had apparently remembered immediately.
Frank angled his head.
Tom followed without thinking.
A quiet breath escaped him.
Your arm tightened around his waist.
Tom’s free hand found yours.
His fingers threaded through them and held on.
You watched Frank kiss him, watched the subtle movement of Tom’s mouth and the colour spreading slowly down his throat.
Then you touched Tom’s face and turned him gently toward you.
Frank released him without resistance.
Tom looked dazed for a moment before you kissed him again.
His response was immediate.
His hand slid behind your neck and drew you closer, his mouth opening against yours with none of the caution he had shown Frank. He kissed you with reassurance and possession tangled together, as though he needed to remind himself—and perhaps Frank—that this remained the centre of everything.
You pressed closer.
Frank’s hand stayed at the back of Tom’s neck.
You felt his fingers move there while Tom kissed you.
The sensation made Tom shiver.
You smiled against his mouth.
“You like that.”
Tom opened his eyes.
“You knew I would.”
“I suspected.”
Frank’s voice came quietly from behind him.
“She seems to suspect a great deal.”
Tom turned his head enough to look at him.
“She’s dangerous when she becomes curious.”
You kissed the corner of Tom’s mouth.
“You keep saying that as though you’re unhappy about it.”
“I’m very clearly not unhappy.”
Frank’s hand slid from Tom’s neck to his shoulder.
“Very clearly,” he agreed.
Tom shot him a look.
You caught Tom’s chin and kissed him again before he could respond.
This time, Frank moved closer behind him.
Tom was held between you properly now.
Your body against his front.
Frank’s chest near his back.
Tom made a small sound into your mouth when Frank’s hand settled at his waist.
You broke the kiss only far enough to speak.
“All right?”
“Yes.”
Frank’s mouth hovered near Tom’s ear.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Tom shook his head.
“No.”
“Then tell me what you want.”
Tom’s eyes met yours.
There was vulnerability there, but no uncertainty.
“Both of you.”
Your pulse stumbled.
You kissed him once again, gently.
Then you turned his face toward Frank.
Frank kissed him again.
You remained directly in front of Tom, your hands moving slowly over his chest while Frank’s mouth claimed his attention. Beneath your palms, his breathing grew uneven.
Your fingers found the first button of his black shirt.
Tom opened his eyes and looked at you while still kissing Frank.
You paused.
“May I?”
He nodded.
You began unbuttoning it slowly, one button at a time, your knuckles brushing the skin gradually revealed beneath the fabric.
Frank continued kissing him as you worked.
Tom’s fingers tightened at your waist.
When the last button came free, you pushed the shirt open and leaned close to his ear.
“I’m very glad I made you wear this.”
Tom gave a breathless laugh against Frank’s mouth.
You slid the shirt from his shoulders while Frank helped ease it down his arms. Their hands briefly crossed behind Tom without touching, the boundary between you and Frank remaining clear and deliberate.
The shirt dropped to the floor.
Frank finally drew back.
Tom stood between you in only his trousers, his chest bare and his breathing uneven.
Frank looked at him with open appreciation.
Tom caught the expression immediately.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“My face has excellent taste.”
You ran your hands over Tom’s bare shoulders and down his chest.
“He’s right.”
Tom looked at you.
“You are supposed to be on my side.”
“I am.”
Your palms settled flat against his chest.
“That doesn’t require lying.”
Tom’s expression softened.
You traced the warm skin beneath your fingertips.
“Beautiful,” you murmured.
Frank’s hand settled lightly against Tom’s shoulder.
“She’s right.”
Tom looked between you.
“This is becoming very unfair.”
“How?” you asked.
“I’m the only one losing clothes.”
You smiled.
“You could correct that.”
Tom looked at you first.
His fingers moved to the fastening of your clothes, then stopped.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
He removed the outer layer slowly, his attention fixed on your face as the fabric slipped from your shoulders and joined his clothes on the sofa.
He leaned forward and kissed the newly exposed skin near your collarbone.
The tenderness of it contrasted sharply with Frank’s hand still resting against his bare back.
You closed your eyes for a moment.
When you opened them, Frank was watching Tom rather than you.
Keeping his promise.
You touched Tom’s cheek.
“Frank’s wearing far too many clothes.”
Tom glanced over his shoulder.
“He usually does.”
Frank lifted an eyebrow.
“You used to enjoy removing them.”
Tom’s face warmed.
Then something steadier entered his expression.
He turned within the circle of your arms until he faced Frank.
You stayed close behind him, your hands resting at his waist.
Tom reached for the first button of Frank’s shirt.
Frank did not move.
He simply watched him.
“Still only kissing?” Frank asked.
Tom opened one button.
“And this.”
Another.
“For now.”
Frank’s smile was slow.
“Of course.”
Tom opened the rest of the shirt, his fingers becoming more certain as he continued.
When he pushed the fabric from Frank’s shoulders, Frank let it fall.
For a moment, Tom only looked at him.
Not embarrassed now.
Not hiding.
Frank lifted a hand and touched Tom’s jaw again.
You pressed a kiss between Tom’s shoulder blades.
He shivered beneath your mouth.
Frank leaned forward.
Tom met him halfway.
Their mouths came together while your arms circled Tom’s waist from behind. You held him against you as Frank kissed him, your palms moving slowly over his stomach and ribs.
Tom reached back blindly until he found your hip.
He held you there.
Anchored between you.
Frank drew back barely an inch.
Their foreheads almost touched.
Tom’s eyes remained half closed, his breathing uneven.
Frank looked at him.
Tom opened his eyes.
The nervousness was still there, but it was overwhelmed now by desire and then, almost suddenly, Tom pulled him back and kissed him again.
This one was not cautious.
Frank responded instantly, his hand closing more firmly behind Tom’s neck as familiarity overtook restraint. Tom’s body shifted toward him while remaining held against you, caught deliberately between the person he loved and the man whose touch he remembered.
You stayed pressed to Tom’s back, feeling every change in his breathing while your lips moved over his shoulder.
Tom did not forget you.
Even while he kissed Frank, his hand remained locked around your wrist and, after a little while of this, you turned his face toward you again.
Tom came willingly, kissing you with the same urgency while Frank’s mouth moved to his jaw.
For a few breathless moments, Tom existed entirely between you.
Your mouth against his.
Frank’s hand at his neck.
Your fingers spread over his chest.
His body turning first toward one of you and then the other, never forced, never hurried.
Frank kissed him again when you released him.
You watched from inches away, touching Tom while their mouths met.
Frank’s eyes opened briefly and found yours over Tom’s shoulder.
The look that passed between you was heated, knowing and precise.
There was nothing between you and Frank.
There did not need to be.
Tom was the connection.
Tom was the boundary.
Tom was the reason both of you were there.
You slid your arms around him once more and kissed his shoulder.
“Still yes?” you whispered.
Tom broke away from Frank, breathless and flushed.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader,
The next two days became unexpectedly consumed by preparations for the country house.
Your mother sent an itinerary before breakfast the following morning.
Not suggestions.
An itinerary.
Arrival between eleven and twelve. Lunch at one. Drinks before dinner at six. Dinner at seven-thirty. A walk on Sunday morning, weather permitting. A late lunch with unspecified neighbours on Sunday afternoon. Departure on Monday after breakfast.
There was even a section labelled Optional Rest or Reading between three-fifteen and four on Saturday, which made rest sound like another activity for which appropriate footwear might be required.
You read the message from Tom’s side of the bed while he stood near the wardrobe looking for a clean jumper.
“She has scheduled free time.”
Tom glanced over his shoulder.
“How much?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Generous.”
“It says optional rest or reading.”
“Perhaps she knows you.”
You looked up from your phone.
“My mother has never understood how I rest.”
Tom found the jumper folded over the back of a chair where he had left it the previous evening.
“How do you rest?”
“I complain about being tired, lie down for four minutes and then decide to reorganise something unnecessary.”
He pulled the jumper over his head.
“That sounds accurate.”
“I don’t appreciate how quickly you answered.”
“You asked.”
You returned to the itinerary.
Your mother had also included a reminder that the house could become cold in the evenings, as though the two of you had never encountered weather before.
“She says to bring suitable clothes.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“It means she thinks I dress irresponsibly.”
Tom looked at the pile of clothes beside the bed.
There was a green evening dress, three jumpers, leather trousers, a skirt, two pairs of jeans and something black and feathered that technically counted as a jacket.
“No comment.”
You threw a sock at him.
He caught it without difficulty and placed it neatly on the bed.
Your phone rang.
Arthur.
You answered on speaker.
“Hello?”
“Are you driving up on Friday?”
You looked toward Tom.
He was now folding the sock you had thrown at him.
“Possibly.”
“What does possibly mean?”
“It means we haven’t discussed the logistics.”
“You’ve known about this since yesterday.”
“I was asleep for some of yesterday.”
Arthur ignored that.
“Leo wants to know whether we can come with you.”
From somewhere beside him, Leo’s voice appeared.
“I also want to know whether there will be coffee if we do.”
You looked toward the window, where your Mini was parked outside Tom’s house.
Your Mini was theoretically capable of carrying four adults.
It was not capable of carrying four adults comfortably, four overnight bags, Leo’s inexplicable quantity of clothing and whatever food your mother would inevitably send home with everyone.
“You won’t all fit in my car.”
Arthur sounded offended.
“I’m not unusually large.”
“No, but Leo packs like he is fleeing a collapsing monarchy.”
Leo’s voice became clearer.
“I like options.”
“You brought five jackets to Paris for three days.”
“The weather was unpredictable.”
“It was July.”
Tom sat on the edge of the bed and pointed toward himself.
You covered the speaker.
“What?”
“We can take my car.”
You stared at him.
Tom owned a Volvo.
It was not an expensive Volvo, nor was it sleek, fast or remotely interesting. It was a dark-grey family style car he had bought because Ellie’s possessions multiplied every time she entered a vehicle.
The back seat currently contained one trainer, a cardigan, two hair ties, three empty water bottles and a paperback Ellie insisted she had not lost.
The glovebox held tissues, wet wipes, plasters, mints and a tiny packet of raisins that had probably expired during the previous government.
It was practical.
Safe.
Deeply parental.
You looked at Tom.
“You mean the dad car?”
His expression flattened.
“It is not a dad car.”
“It has emergency tissues in every door.”
“Yes. Well. You never know.”
“There are wet wipes in the glovebox.”
“I have a child.”
“There’s a tiny umbrella under the passenger seat.”
“It rains.”
Arthur’s voice came sharply through the phone.
“Are you two discussing us or having another domestic argument?”
“Both,” you said.
Tom reached for the phone.
“We can all take my car.”
Arthur immediately sounded relieved.
“Good.”
“You’ll need to come here on Friday morning then.”
“How early?”
Tom looked at your mother’s itinerary.
“If she wants us there by eleven, we should leave at eight.”
You stared at him.
“Eight?”
“It’s a long drive.”
Arthur laughed.
Tom ignored both of you.
“Eight,” he repeated.
“Eight-thirty.”
“Eight-fifteen.”
“Eight-twenty.”
Tom considered it.
“Fine.”
Arthur said, “This is painful.”
“Then hire a car.”
“We’ll be there at eight-twenty.”
Leo’s voice returned.
“Will there definitely be coffee?”
Tom answered before you could.
“Yes. We will pick some up on the way.”
“Good. I’m bringing two bags.”
Arthur said something muffled and outraged.
The call ended in the middle of their argument.
*********
The same day the driving arrangements were settled, several other pieces of the weekend fell into place as well.
Sam was appointed hamster caretaker after Tom rejected two professional pet-sitting services for being unnecessarily expensive and you rejected Ruth’s suggestion that Nibbles could simply stay with her because Ellie had already prepared a four-page document explaining why temporarily separating the hamsters would disrupt their social progress.
Sam arrived that afternoon to receive instructions and the spare key.
He stood in the study doorway, looking between the two large enclosures, the containers of labelled food and the laminated schedule Ellie had attached to the wall.
“I thought you said you needed me to feed a hamster.”
Tom folded his arms.
“Two hamsters.”
Sam looked at him.
“You have two hamsters now?”
“I do not have two hamsters.”
You appeared behind him carrying a bag of bedding.
“He has two hamsters residing in his premises.”
Tom turned.
“One belongs to you.”
“He does and he is temporarily residing here.”
Sam stared at the enclosures.
“And the other one?”
“Ellie’s. Subject to a shared custody agreement with Ruth,” you said.
Tom closed his eyes.
“Do not call it that.”
You handed Sam the laminated sheet.
“Fresh food every evening. Check the water bottles. Thomas likes cucumber but only small pieces, and Nibbles attempts to climb into his bowl while eating.”
Sam looked down at the page.
“There’s a section called Emotional Welfare.”
“Ellie wrote that.”
“There are emergency contacts.”
“I objected,” Tom said.
You pointed toward the bottom of the sheet.
“I’m first. Tom is second because he panics.”
“I respond rapidly to unexpected situations.”
Sam looked between you.
“I suddenly understand why Ellie wrote everything down.”
He agreed to come by twice a day and was given a spare key, three separate phone numbers and strict instructions not to introduce the hamsters physically, no matter how friendly they appeared through the sides of their respective enclosures.
Tom walked him to the front door.
“You don’t need to follow every detail.”
You appeared in the hallway.
“He absolutely does.”
Sam tucked the instructions into his coat.
“I’m going to follow the document written by the sixteen-year-old. She seems the most competent.”
Tom shut the door behind him.
“Everyone has become very comfortable insulting me in my own house.”
Your phone vibrated before you could answer.
Leo had sent a message.
GAME NIGHT THURSDAY? OURS. SEVEN. ARTHUR SAYS SMALL AND CIVILISED, SO NATURALLY I’VE INVITED PEOPLE.
You showed Tom.
“Thursday?”
He glanced at the half-packed bags near the stairs.
“We’re supposed to be preparing to leave.”
“We’re leaving Friday.”
“You haven’t packed.”
“I have considered packing.”
“That is not the same activity.”
Another message appeared before you could defend yourself.
ALSO: WOULD IT BE WEIRD IF I INVITED FRANK? GENUINELY ASKING. I KNOW YOU WERE FINE BEFORE, BUT EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT NOW.
You read it twice.
Tom noticed your expression.
“What?”
You turned the screen toward him.
He read the message without speaking.
“I don’t mind,” you said.
Tom handed the phone back.
“All right.”
“Maybe Leo should check with you separately.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You’re standing beside me.”
“Yes, but it’s your friendship and your former sex life currently being treated as event logistics.”
Tom’s mouth tightened.
“That is an alarming sentence.”
You typed your reply.
NOT WEIRD FOR ME. MAYBE CHECK WITH TOM TOO, THOUGH.
Leo responded almost immediately.
ALREADY PLANNED TO. LOOK AT ME PRACTISING EMOTIONAL MATURITY.
You showed Tom.
“He sounds very proud of himself.”
“It’s a new skill.”
Leo called Tom a few minutes later.
You stayed in the kitchen, pretending not to listen while making tea.
Tom leaned against the counter with the phone pressed to his ear.
“No, it’s fine.”
A pause.
“I mean it, Leo.”
Another pause.
Tom looked toward you.
“She said the same thing.”
You gave him a small wave.
His mouth almost curved.
“No. You don’t need to arrange the seating like a diplomatic summit.”
You laughed into the cupboard.
Tom turned away.
“Just invite him.”
When he ended the call, you handed him a mug.
“Diplomatic summit?”
“Leo wanted to know whether Frank and I should be placed on opposite sides of the room.”
“That would look much stranger.”
“I told him that.”
You leaned against the counter beside him.
“You’re genuinely fine with it?”
Tom took a drink before answering.
“Yes.”
The response was sincere, although not effortless.
You could hear the difference.
“It might be a little strange?”
He looked at you.
“Probably.”
“That’s allowed.”
Tom nodded.
His thumb moved absently against the handle of the mug.
“It will be the first time I’ve seen him since the photographs.”
“Then perhaps it’s better that it’s somewhere private.”
“With twelve people staring at us while pretending not to.”
“Leo said small and civilised.”
Tom gave you a look.
“Leo lies.”
By Thursday, half your wardrobe appeared to have migrated onto the bedroom floor.
You had created several piles.
One for clothes you definitely needed. One for clothes you might need. One for clothes you probably did not need but would regret leaving behind if your mother unexpectedly arranged a formal dinner, garden party, shooting weekend or small diplomatic reception.
Tom had packed three shirts, two jumpers, trousers, underwear and a book.
You looked into his open bag.
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“What if something happens?”
“Like what?”
“Weather.”
“I have a coat.”
“Dinner.”
“I have a shirt.”
“A sudden themed event.”
Tom looked at you.
“What themed event is likely to occur at your parents’ country house?”
“You don’t know my mother.”
He zipped the bag.
You looked at your own piles.
Tom followed your gaze.
“You’ve packed four pairs of shoes.”
“They perform different functions.”
“Two of them appear structurally identical.”
“One is for daytime.”
“And the other?”
“Evening.”
Tom picked up both shoes and compared them.
“They are the same shoe.”
“The heel is different.”
“By approximately three millimetres.”
“Which changes the entire silhouette.”
He placed them back down with exaggerated care.
“Of course.”
Despite Tom’s complete lack of faith in your system, you did eventually manage to pack.
Most of the original piles disappeared into the bag. Several items were rejected after lengthy consideration, then added again when you imagined increasingly unlikely emergencies in which they might become essential. Tom watched the process from the bed with his book open, offering no assistance beyond occasionally pointing out that the bag would need to close.
It did close in the end.
Barely.
You sat on top of it while Tom pulled the zip around the final corner.
“There,” you said when it was done. “Perfect.”
Tom looked at the visibly strained seams.
“That is not the word I would use.”
“It’s packed.”
“It’s under considerable pressure.”
“So am I.”
He left the bag alone after that.
Once packing was finally finished, the two of you began getting ready for game night.
Tom stood in front of the mirror wearing the black shirt you had put out for him.
You sat on the edge of the bed fastening an earring.
“It’s too formal,” he decided.
“No, it isn’t.”
He turned slightly, studying himself from the side.
“It looks formal,” he said and began unbuttoning it again.
You watched for several seconds.
He caught your expression in the mirror.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me strangely.”
“I like that shirt.”
Tom glanced at your reflection.
“Okay.”
“And I also like your chest.”
His hands stopped at the third button.
You smiled.
Tom looked toward the ceiling.
“This is not helpful.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
He removed the shirt and pulled on a dark jumper instead.
You watched him adjust the sleeves for several seconds before standing and walking up behind him.
“Put the shirt back on.”
Tom met your eyes in the mirror.
“Why?”
You wrapped your arms around his waist.
“I don’t know. It just looks really hot on you.”
His mouth twitched.
“That is a remarkably weak argument.”
“And yet completely accurate.”
Tom looked down at the jumper, then back at you.
Eventually, he sighed and pulled it off again.
He put the black shirt back on, fastening only enough buttons to leave the top of his chest visible.
Then he turned to face you.
“Fine. Happy?”
You looked him over slowly.
“Hmm.”
Tom’s eyebrows rose.
“Hmm?”
You reached up and opened one more button.
“Happier.”
*****
Game night happened at Arthur and Leo’s house on the other side of London.
It was not really a game night in the quiet, structured sense.
Leo had invited twelve people, ordered enough food for thirty and placed four different board games across the dining table despite apparently having read the rules to none of them.
Someone brought wine.
Someone else brought tequila.
Arthur had made a large bowl of something involving chickpeas, pomegranate seeds and herbs that everyone politely referred to as salad despite no one appearing willing to eat it.
“Why did you make so much?” you asked Arthur.
Arthur looked at Leo.
“Because someone said twelve people required six kilograms of food.”
Leo opened another container.
“I didn’t want anyone to leave hungry.”
“No one has ever left this house hungry.”
“Exactly. My system works.”
Most of the guests were people you already knew through Arthur and Leo. Old university friends. A theatre director Leo had worked with. Two women from an arts foundation. A solicitor named Priya who became frighteningly competitive the moment she saw a timer.
Tom knew almost no one.
He stood near the drinks table with one hand at your waist, answering a question from Dominic about theatre schools while also looking as though he would happily climb through the nearest window.
You leaned closer.
“You can leave if you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You’ve looked at the door four times.”
“I’m observing the room.”
“Planning an escape.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
The buzzer sounded shortly after eight.
Leo crossed the room.
“That will be Frank.”
Tom’s hand shifted at your waist.
Only slightly.
You looked up at him.
He looked down at you.
“Fine?”
“Yes.”
Leo opened the door downstairs.
Several minutes later, Frank appeared carrying two bottles of wine and no apology.
“You said seven,” Leo told him.
Frank handed him one bottle.
“It is seven.”
Arthur pointed toward the wall clock.
“It’s eight-fifteen.”
Frank handed Leo the second bottle.
“Now you have two.”
Leo accepted this immediately.
Frank removed his coat while looking around the room.
His gaze found Tom first.
There was a brief pause.
Not romantic.
Not dramatic.
Only recognition complicated by recent history and by the knowledge that several people in the room were pretending not to notice it.
Frank crossed toward him.
Tom stepped away from the table.
“Hey,” Tom said.
“Hello.”
They hugged.
It was quick but familiar, Tom’s hand settling against Frank’s shoulder while Frank’s rested briefly against the middle of his back.
Frank drew away first but left his hand on Tom’s arm for an extra second.
His gaze dropped to the black shirt.
“Nice shirt.”
Tom looked down at himself.
Then at you.
You smiled.
“Thank you. I chose it.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“So he had help getting dressed. That makes sense.”
Tom frowned.
“I am capable of dressing myself.”
“Occasionally,” you said.
Frank laughed.
Tom looked between you both.
“I’m standing right here.”
“We know,” you said.
Frank’s gaze moved to you then.
“It’s good to see you again, Y/N.”
You smiled.
“Likewise.”
And you meant it.
********
After a short amount of small talk, Frank accepted a whiskey from Arthur and remained near the two of you while Leo tried to organise everyone into teams.
There was something interesting about seeing Frank and Tom occupy the same space.
They did not crowd one another.
They did not need to.
There was an ease between them that showed in smaller ways. Frank passed Tom a drink without asking what he wanted. Tom moved aside before Frank reached behind him for the bottle. When Frank made a dry comment beneath his breath, Tom heard it despite three other conversations happening around them.
You noticed all of it.
Tom noticed you noticing.
His fingers brushed your lower back.
“You’re observing,” he murmured.
You looked innocent.
“I’m socialising.”
“You haven’t spoken for thirty seconds which is highly unusual.”
Frank leaned closer from Tom’s other side.
“I think she’s studying us.”
Tom sighed.
“I know.”
You looked between them.
“You’re both paranoid.”
Frank took a drink.
“You’re not subtle.”
“I’m extremely subtle.”
Tom and Frank looked at each other.
Neither spoke.
You stared.
“That was rude.”
“We didn’t say anything,” Tom replied.
“Exactly.”
The three of you laughed, and just as you opened your mouth to add something clever, Leo called everyone over for the first game.
*********
The first game involved teams.
No one understood the scoring, including Leo, who insisted he had invented a more efficient version of the rules. Priya objected on legal grounds. Arthur pointed out that there were no legal grounds because it was a board game. Priya asked him to cite his authority.
You were placed with Frank, Priya and Dominic, who kept checking answers on his phone and pretending he had simply known them.
Tom ended up opposite you with Leo, Arthur and Celeste, who immediately appointed herself captain.
Tom looked at Frank.
“Don’t let her cheat.”
You stared across the table.
“I don’t cheat.”
Frank picked up the cards.
“Does she cheat?”
“Only when she believes the original rules are inefficient.”
“That happened once.”
“You invented a second turn for yourself.”
“The game was moving slowly.”
Frank nodded.
“I’ll watch her.”
You leaned toward him.
“Traitor. You’re meant to be on my team.”
“I can be loyal and vigilant.”
Tom watched the exchange with a faint smile.
The game involved describing words without using five related terms printed beneath them and it became clear within three rounds that you and Frank were alarmingly good together.
Frank held up the next card.
“Right. You have one of these.”
“That could be anything.”
“Yours has a deeply unfortunate name.”
You stared at him.
“Thomas.”
He pointed at you.
“Hamster.”
The timer had barely moved.
Tom looked up from the opposite side of the table.
“That was not enough information.”
“It was for her,” Frank said.
“Unfortunately,” Arthur added.
Frank picked up another card.
He read it and glanced across at Tom.
“Your boyfriend does this whenever somebody tells a story badly.”
“Interrupts.”
“No.”
Tom frowned.
“I don’t interrupt.”
You looked at him.
“You just did.”
The table laughed.
Frank continued.
“He makes a face, waits approximately six seconds and then tells them the detail they got wrong.”
“Corrects.”
“Yes.”
Tom folded his arms.
“That clue was unfairly specific.”
“It needed to be,” you said.
Frank picked up the next card.
“Some people, including every single person from the opposing team, do this with their hands when words apparently aren’t enough.”
Tom was already gesturing while objecting to the previous clue.
You pointed at him.
“Gestures.”
“Yes.”
Tom immediately lowered his hands.
Celeste stared between you.
“That was disturbing.”
“He demonstrated it,” you said.
“I was making a point,” Tom replied.
“With your entire upper body,” Arthur said.
Frank took another card.
He looked at it.
Then at you.
A slow smile spread across his face.
“Oh, that’s easy.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“What are you?”
You answered immediately.
“Smart.”
Arthur snorted into his drink.
You turned toward him.
“Excuse me?”
“Debatable.”
“I’m significantly smarter than you.”
“You forgot our mother’s birthday last year.”
“That is memory, not intelligence.”
Across the table, Tom nodded solemnly.
“She’s right.”
Arthur looked at him.
“Of course you’d say that.”
Frank tapped the card against the table.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Acting.”
“So what are you?”
You frowned.
“An actress.”
Frank nodded toward Tom.
“And he is?”
You looked across the table.
Tom already appeared suspicious.
“An actor.”
Frank slapped the card down.
“Yes.”
You stared.
“That was an unnecessarily long route.”
“You said smart first.”
“Because you asked what I was.”
“You could have said actress.”
“That wasn’t the obvious answer.”
Tom leaned toward Leo.
“She needs context.”
You turned sharply.
“The question was vague.”
“I agree.”
Frank looked between the two of you.
“You’ve somehow both made my point.”
Leo rested both elbows on the table.
“Why are you two so good at this game together?”
Frank leaned back and considered you.
Then he looked at Tom.
“Unfortunately, she has quite a lot in common with her boyfriend and that somehow resonates with me.”
You frowned.
“I do not.”
Tom looked equally offended.
“We are nothing alike.”
Frank pointed between you.
“Same impatience. Same inability to allow a technically inaccurate statement to survive. Same need to explain why the question was badly phrased after the round has already moved on.”
“The question was genuinely unclear,” you said.
At exactly the same moment, Tom said, “It was badly phrased.”
The table erupted.
Tom closed his eyes.
Frank slapped one hand against the table.
“There. That.”
You looked at Tom.
He looked at you.
“Coincidence,” you said.
“Completely,” Tom agreed.
That only made everyone laugh harder.
By the end of the round, you and Frank had accumulated almost twice as many points as everyone else.
When Leo announced the scores, Frank lifted one hand toward you.
You slapped your palm against his.
Tom watched.
“You appear very pleased with yourselves.”
“We won,” you said.
“Under rules no one understood.”
Frank leaned toward you.
“He’s a bad loser.”
Tom looked up and pointed at Frank as though preparing to dismantle the accusation.
“I’m a bad loser?”
“Absolutely.”
Tom stared at him.
“May I remind you that you once stopped speaking to me for an entire evening because I beat you at Scrabble?”
Frank laughed.
“You used a French word.”
“It is also an English word.”
“You argued for forty minutes.”
“Because I was correct.”
You smiled.
Frank noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just like hearing old stories now and then.”
Tom reached for his drink.
“You will regret encouraging him.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“I have several.”
Tom gave him a warning look.
You leaned forward eagerly.
“Please continue.”
“No,” Tom said.
“Yes,” Frank said at the same time.
Tom turned toward him.
Frank took a slow drink, watching Tom over the rim of the glass.
“You still hate losing.”
“I don’t hate losing.”
“You hate being witnessed losing.”
Tom considered that.
“That is different.”
You pointed at him.
“That is completely true.”
He looked betrayed.
“You’re meant to be on my side.”
“I’m on your side.”
Frank laughed softly.
“I see why you like her.”
The words were directed at Tom.
The room was noisy enough that no one else seemed to notice.
You did.
Tom did too.
His gaze moved briefly to Frank’s face.
Then to yours.
“Yes,” Tom said quietly. “So do I.”
The simple warmth in his voice made your teasing smile soften.
Frank looked away first, reaching for the next card as though the moment had not landed quite as intimately as it had.
Later, while Arthur cleared plates and Leo attempted to force everyone into playing charades, Tom went onto the small back patio for a cigarette.
He glanced toward you before opening the door.
Not obviously.
Only a quick check across the room.
You smiled and returned to your conversation.
Frank followed him several minutes later carrying two glasses of whiskey.
He slid the door closed behind him.
Through the glass, you watched him hand one glass to Tom.
Tom accepted it without asking what it was.
Outside, the night was cold enough that their breath occasionally clouded between them.
Tom leaned against the railing.
Frank stood beside him, close enough to speak quietly without looking conspiratorial, although half the room was probably watching anyway.
Frank said something.
Tom looked down at his cigarette.
Then Frank touched his shoulder.
Briefly.
Reassuringly.
Tom nodded.
The ease between them appeared again.
Not romantic.
But intimate in the way a long friendship often became intimate, particularly when sex had once been allowed to exist inside it without destroying it.
Someone beside you said, “Doesn’t that feel strange?”
You turned.
Celeste was watching the patio.
“What?”
“Seeing your boyfriend talking to his ex.”
You followed her gaze.
“Frank isn’t his ex.”
“But they slept together.”
There was no judgement in her voice.
Only blunt curiosity made bolder by wine.
You shrugged.
“He was his lover once. He wasn’t an ex-boyfriend. There was no relationship, no breakup and no grudge. That’s different.”
Celeste looked at you.
“So, you genuinely don’t feel weird about it?”
“No.”
“Not even slightly?”
“Why would I?”
“History.”
You looked outside again.
Tom was speaking now. Frank listened, his glass resting against the railing.
They looked comfortable.
Familiar.
Nothing more dangerous than that.
“Everyone has history.”
“Not everyone has photographs of theirs on the front page.”
“That part was strange,” you admitted. “But the rest isn’t.”
Outside, Tom looked through the doors.
His eyes found you immediately.
You lifted your eyebrows.
He frowned slightly, silently asking whether you were all right.
You gave him a pointed thumbs-up.
Frank followed his gaze and saw the exchange.
He laughed.
Tom said something to him.
Frank laughed harder.
When they came back inside, Tom walked directly toward you.
Frank followed at a slower pace, carrying both empty glasses.
“Everything all right?” Tom asked.
You stared at him.
“Tom.”
“What?”
“You are allowed to speak to Frank without checking every thirty seconds whether I’ve developed a sudden objection.”
His expression became defensive.
“I checked once.”
“You checked through the window twice.”
“Once intentionally.”
Frank stopped beside him.
“The second time was because I pointed out that you were watching us.”
Tom looked at him.
“You are not helping.”
“I’m not trying to.”
You touched Tom’s arm.
“I’m all right.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His gaze moved briefly toward Frank.
“I’m adjusting.”
Your expression softened.
“You don’t need my permission to be his friend.”
Tom looked back at you.
“I know.”
“Good.”
You kissed his cheek.
Frank watched.
“This is unbearably healthy.”
Tom turned.
“Go away.”
Frank leaned toward you.
“He used to be more charming.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Tom gave him a look, then laughed despite himself.
**********
The evening gradually dissolved into smaller conversations.
Several people left before eleven. Others moved into the living room and abandoned the games completely.
You ended up sitting on the floor beside the low coffee table while Frank showed Leo photographs on his phone.
Tom occupied the sofa directly behind you, one knee close to your shoulder.
The photographs belonged to a new series: empty hotel rooms, half-finished meals, unmade beds and people seen through windows from enough distance that they became shapes rather than identities.
You leaned closer to the screen.
“These are beautiful.”
Frank glanced at you.
“They’re unfinished.”
“That doesn’t mean they aren’t beautiful.”
He enlarged one of them.
A woman stood behind the curtain of a third-floor window with one hand against the glass. Her face was hidden beneath the reflection of a pale evening sky.
“It’s about absence,” Frank said. “Or evidence that someone has just left. I haven’t quite decided.”
“Maybe you don’t need to decide.”
He looked at you.
“Why?”
“Maybe you decide what you photographed, and whoever sees it decides what they lost.”
Frank studied you for a moment.
“That sounded suspiciously thoughtful.”
“I have moments.”
“Rare?”
“Extremely.”
Tom’s fingers moved absently through the ends of your hair from the sofa.
Frank noticed.
He noticed most things.
His gaze lifted to Tom.
“She’s better company than you were.”
Tom looked down.
“At what?”
“Looking at photographs.”
“I looked at your photographs.”
“You said they were depressing.”
“They were photographs of empty rooms.”
“They were contemplative.”
“They were depressing in a contemplative way.”
You leaned your head back against Tom’s knee.
“I like them.”
Frank looked pleased and then scrolled to another one.
“See, your girlfriend has taste.”
Tom’s fingers tightened lightly in your hair.
“Occasionally.”
You tilted your head back farther.
“Careful.”
He smiled down at you.
Frank watched the exchange for a second before returning to the phone.
“I have the larger prints at the loft,” he said. “You and Tom should come by before they’re sent to New York. They make more sense at scale.”
You looked at him.
“When are they going?”
“Monday.”
“Then we can come on Sunday.”
Tom’s fingers stopped moving.
“We’re at your parents’ house on Sunday.”
You stared up at him.
“Oh, shit.”
Arthur looked over from the dining table.
“You forgot the parental trap again?”
“I didn’t forget. It temporarily left the active portion of my brain.”
“Twice in two days.”
“That does not establish a pattern.”
Tom rubbed his forehead.
For a moment, you were both quiet.
Then turned toward him.
“We should go tonight then.”
He looked down at you.
“To see the photographs?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“We’re awake.”
“Yes, and tomorrow we have to drive for three hours.”
“After coffee.”
Tom gave you a look.
“That would require a great deal of coffee.”
Frank took a drink.
“I’m enjoying this.”
You ignored him.
“Frank’s loft is practically on the way home.”
Tom’s eyebrows rose.
“His loft is in Soho. We are currently in Stratford.”
You waved one hand.
“London is not that large.”
“It is significantly larger than your understanding of geography.”
“We can get an Uber.”
Tom looked toward Frank.
Then back at you.
“We could get an Uber,” he repeated, as though testing whether the suggestion became more sensible when spoken in his own voice.
Frank nodded.
“Yes we could.”
That settled it.
Tom sighed and reached for his phone.
“Fine.”
You smiled immediately.
“Fine?”
“Fine as in I am ordering an Uber.”
Frank leaned over slightly to look at the screen.
“Do you remember my address?”
Tom did not look up.
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
You smiled.
Tom noticed.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Frank glanced between you.
“She has a very expressive face.”
“You’re both exhausting.”
Tom entered the address without asking Frank to repeat it.
Frank noticed that too, although he was tactful enough not to comment.
The Uber was six minutes away.
That was apparently enough time for Arthur and Leo to become increasingly suspicious.
Arthur stood near the dining table with an empty plate in one hand, watching as Frank collected his camera bag and Tom helped you into your coat.
Leo leaned against the wall beside him.
“So,” he said slowly, “the three of you are leaving together.”
You looked over.
“To see photographs.”
“At Frank’s loft.”
“Yes.”
“After midnight.”
“Art does not observe conventional business hours.”
Arthur stared at you.
“You invented that sentence.”
“It can still be true.”
Tom came up behind you and adjusted the collar of your coat.
“We’re only going for an hour.”
You looked at him.
“Are we?”
Tom’s hands stopped at your shoulders.
“Yes.”
You turned your head.
“Maybe an hour and a half.”
Tom closed his eyes.
Leo folded his arms and smiled while Frank slipped his own coat on and rolled his eyes.
Then the driver messaged to say he had arrived.
You picked up your handbag.
“We’ll message when we get home.”
Arthur frowned.
“Which home?”
You paused.
Tom looked at the floor.
Frank looked toward the door.
Leo made a strangled sound that was suspiciously close to laughter.
“Tom’s,” you said eventually.
Arthur’s expression did not improve.
Tom opened the door.
“Goodnight.”
Leo called after him.
“Behave.”
Tom looked back.
“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?”
Leo’s gaze shifted to you.
“Because saying it to her would be pointless.”
Frank nodded.
“That seems fair.”
You stared at both of them.
“I am still here.”
“We know,” Tom and Frank said together.
That made you smile despite yourself.
The three of you disappeared into the hallway.
A moment later, the lift doors closed.
Arthur remained near the open front door, listening to the fading machinery.
Leo stepped beside him.
Neither spoke until they heard the building’s main entrance shut downstairs.
Then Leo turned slowly toward Arthur.
“Your sister is unhinged.”
Arthur closed the door.
“No.”
Leo stared at him.
“She has just left after midnight with her boyfriend and his former lover to visit his Soho loft.”
Arthur carried the empty plate toward the kitchen.
“They’re looking at photographs.”
“All three of them.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
Arthur placed the plate beside the sink with slightly more force than necessary.
“There is no way.”
Leo followed him.
“No way what?”
Arthur turned.
“No way what you are thinking.”
Leo gave him a long look.
“She put Tom in the middle of the Uber.”
Arthur stopped.
“She did what?”
“I saw it through the window.”
Arthur stared toward the living room as though the seating arrangement might somehow still be visible.
Leo picked up an abandoned glass of wine.
“She climbed in first, made Tom sit in the middle and then Frank got in beside him.”
“Maybe Tom gets carsick and needs to look out the front window.”
“Arthur.”
Arthur looked increasingly uncomfortable.
“There is no way.”
Leo drank the remaining wine.
“You sound as though you’re trying to convince yourself.”
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Tom looked at the screen.
Then at you.
Then back at the screen.
His eyebrows rose.
“Okay…”
You remained on the bottom stair, clutching the towel against your chest. Water ran from your hair, down your shoulders and along the bare length of one leg before dripping onto the floorboards.
Tom did not close the laptop.
That was somehow worse.
The paused video remained visible behind him: two men tangled together on a bed, one leaning over the other, the position leaving very little room for misunderstanding.
You swallowed.
“I can explain.”
Tom slowly sat on the edge of the sofa.
“Go on.”
You stepped farther into the room.
“I wanted to visualise it.”
His forehead creased.
“Visualise what?”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
You gestured toward the laptop.
“That.”
Tom glanced at the screen again.
“That remains remarkably unspecific.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I think I do. I would still prefer to hear you say it.”
You tightened the towel around yourself.
He was not trying to embarrass you. At least, not entirely. He looked too uncertain for that. Too guarded.
“You,” you admitted. “With a man.”
Something small changed in his face.
His gaze left the screen and settled completely on you.
“Right.”
“Obviously, I know how it works.”
Tom blinked.
“I’m relieved.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
“We’ve spoken about it.”
“We have.”
“Quite specifically.”
His mouth tightened slightly.
“Yes.”
You came closer, stopping on the other side of the coffee table.
“I know what you like.”
That made him look away.
Not because he was ashamed. You knew that now. But there was still a reflex in him, something old and defensive, that appeared whenever the details were said too plainly.
“So, I just wanted to, I don’t know,” you stammered, which is when he looked back at the frozen image.
The man beneath was gripping the other’s wrist. His head was turned against the pillow, his expression caught somewhere between strain and pleasure.
Tom closed the browser halfway.
Not completely.
“Was this because of the photos?”
“Partly.”
His jaw shifted.
“Partly.”
You recognised the tone.
Not jealous. Not exactly.
Worried.
“Not because I think you still want to be with Frank.”
Tom frowned.
You walked around the coffee table. His eyes followed you as you approached.
“Then why did you want to visualise…” He gestured toward the screen. “Well, this?”
You stopped between his knees, forcing him to tilt his head back to look at you.
“I suppose I was curious.”
His gaze moved briefly over the bare skin visible above the towel.
“Curious about what?”
You hesitated.
Not because you did not know the answer.
Because saying it while standing in front of him felt different from saying it in your head.
“About what it would look like when…”
His gaze sharpened.
“When?”
You hesitated.
“When you were with a man.”
The words came out more awkwardly than you intended, so naturally you kept talking.
“Which I realise sounds strange, because obviously I know what you look like, and you’re much more handsome than any of those men. Not that I was comparing you exactly. I mean, perhaps a little, but only because none of them looked like you, which made it harder to picture, and then I found one where the man was built a bit more like you, except his hair was terrible and he was nowhere near as—”
You stopped.
Tom had gone completely quiet.
You could almost see the thoughts moving through him, too fast and in too many directions. Whether this bothered you. Whether you had been comparing yourself to the men he had been with. Whether the video was an attempt to understand something he had failed to explain properly.
You reached out and rested your hand on his shoulder.
“Tom.”
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re panicking silently.”
“I am not panicking.”
“You’re rearranging the entire conversation in your head until you find the worst possible interpretation.”
His mouth pressed into a line.
That was answer enough.
You slid your hand from his shoulder to the side of his neck.
“I wanted to picture you enjoying it.”
His expression changed.
The worry did not disappear, but something else moved beneath it.
“Enjoying what?”
You stared at him.
“You are really going to make me say every part of this.”
“Apparently.”
“Fine.”
You took a breath.
“Sex. Sex with a man. It really is as simple as that.”
Tom’s lips parted slightly.
You kept going, because stopping now would only make it worse.
“Sometimes something comes into my head and my brain just follows it. There isn’t always some complicated reason. I thought about you being with a man, then I wanted to know what it might look like, and then I started wondering whether you were different.”
His gaze stayed fixed on yours.
“Different how?”
“Whether you sounded different. Whether you became quieter or louder. Whether you still tried to control everything, even when you wanted someone else to take control instead.”
He stared at you.
A flush had begun near the collar of his shirt.
“That is an alarming amount of consideration.”
“I have ADHD. You know what happens when I become curious.”
“You open fifteen tabs?”
You glanced at the laptop.
“Literally yes. And clearly not just in my head.”
Tom rubbed his hand over his mouth.
“Christ.”
“I started with one.”
“Naturally.”
“Then it wasn’t quite right.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What wasn’t right about it?”
You crouched slightly, bringing your face closer to his.
“The man receiving looked bored.”
Tom stared at you.
“Bored.”
“And the other man was trying far too hard to look dominant and said stupid things.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“You became critical of the performances.”
“It was distracting.”
“From your research.”
“Exactly. The acting was awful.”
He almost smiled.
The tension loosened for one moment.
Then his attention returned to the screen.
“And this one was better?”
You followed his gaze.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Your hand remained against the side of his neck. You felt him swallow beneath your palm.
“Because he looks like he is enjoying himself.”
Tom looked back at you.
“The man underneath?”
“Yes.”
His breathing changed so slightly that anyone else might have missed it.
You did not.
“He wasn’t just lying there,” you said. “He looked like he was having fun which, I guess, is the point. Because sex should be fun.”
Tom’s fingers flexed against his knee.
“And you imagined that was me.”
It was not quite a question.
You nodded.
He looked down.
You touched your thumb to the corner of his mouth.
“Does that upset you?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
“Tom.”
His hands settled carefully on your hips over the towel.
“It doesn’t upset me.”
“But?”
He hesitated.
“It is strange.”
“Bad strange?”
“No.”
His thumbs moved once against your waist.
“Just strange knowing you were sitting here imagining something I haven’t shown you.”
Your voice softened.
“You told me.”
“Telling you is different.”
“Because you can control how much I see?”
His gaze lifted.
There it was.
You had found the centre of it.
Tom leaned back slightly.
“Perhaps.”
You moved closer between his knees and placed both hands against his face, gently forcing him to look at you.
“Well, then I’ve got news for you.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Imagining you like the man in that video turned me on.”
Tom blinked.
You saw the surprise move across his face before he could hide it.
“I know that might sound strange,” you continued, “but it did.”
He stared at you.
Naturally, you kept talking.
“Honestly, if I could turn back time, I would love to be a fly on the wall.”
Tom’s eyebrows rose.
“A fly on the wall.”
“Yes. Watching.”
His mouth parted, but you gave him no opportunity to respond.
“Not in a creepy way.”
He looked toward the laptop.
Then back at you.
“I’m struggling to identify the non-creepy version.”
“In a genuinely curious, extremely horny way.”
Tom went completely still.
You smiled, slightly embarrassed now but far too committed to stop.
“I would want to see what you were like. What you did. With Frank for example. What you let him do. Whether you looked different when you gave up control.”
A flush crept across his face.
His thumbs moved higher beneath the edge of the towel.
“And then I came home.”
You nodded.
“Yes.”
“And we had sex.”
The colour spread fully across his cheeks now.
“Yes.”
His gaze remained fixed on yours.
“While you were still thinking about it?”
You considered lying.
Then decided there had already been far too much honesty to retreat.
“At first.”
Tom’s eyes darkened.
“At first.”
“Then I became distracted by you.”
His mouth twisted.
“How flattering.”
You smiled.
“You were very distracting.”
His hands slid around your waist, holding you more securely between his knees.
“Are you not turned on by it?” you asked.
Suspicion returned immediately.
“I feel like this is a trap.”
“It isn’t.”
“You are naked beneath that towel.”
“That does not make every question a trap.”
“It materially changes the context.”
You slipped your fingers beneath the collar of his shirt.
“So you don’t watch porn?”
Tom’s eyes narrowed.
“I have occasionally.”
“With men and women in them?”
He hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
“Men together?”
His jaw tightened.
“Occasionally.”
You smiled.
“What kind?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you are collecting information.”
“I’m interested.”
“You were interested yesterday and now there are fifteen tabs open.”
“What about two men and one woman?”
Tom looked away.
“Yes.”
“Men with two women?”
“Also yes.”
“What do you focus on?”
His head turned back sharply.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know you.”
“That seems relevant to the conversation.”
“I know that expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one where your brain has already travelled six rooms ahead and I am still standing in the hallway trying to locate my shoes.”
You laughed.
Tom did not.
At least, not fully.
His eyes remained fixed on you, his hands warm through the towel.
You reached behind yourself and released the tucked corner.
The towel fell.
Tom stopped breathing for a second.
His gaze moved down your body. Slowly this time. Not startled. Not accidental.
When his eyes returned to yours, the concern had not vanished, but it had been joined by unmistakable hunger.
“I’ll show you what I liked,” you said.
Tom swallowed.
“You want me to watch porn with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You leaned down until your mouth was beside his ear.
“Because I want to watch you watching it.”
His hands closed around your hips.
“That is deeply unfair.”
“You can say no.”
He did not answer immediately.
You pulled back enough to see his face.
“Tom?”
His eyes moved toward the laptop.
“Show me.”
You sat beside him and reopened the browser.
The video resumed.
The room filled with quiet sounds: uneven breathing, sheets shifting beneath bodies, a man murmuring something too low to distinguish.
Tom watched with rigid concentration.
You watched Tom.
On the screen, one man lay back while the other moved over him. The man beneath did not appear passive. His hands remained active, gripping, directing, pulling the other closer whenever the distance became too great.
Tom shifted beside you.
You rested your hand on his thigh.
He glanced down.
“You aren’t watching.”
“I’ve already seen it.”
“Apparently several times.”
“Yes, and I’m watching you now.”
His eyes returned to the screen, but his leg had tightened beneath your palm.
The man receiving tilted his head back as the other kissed his throat. One hand slid into the man’s hair, not pushing him away but holding him exactly where he wanted him.
You traced your fingers slowly higher along Tom’s thigh.
His breathing deepened and then his eyes met yours.
For a moment, neither of you looked at the video.
The sounds continued beside you, but the real tension existed between your bodies: his hand around your wrist, your bare thigh pressed against his, his expression caught between embarrassment and wanting.
“I know you like this,” you said quietly. “And I think it’s incredibly hot.”
Tom’s fingers tightened slightly around your wrist.
You moved closer.
“So hot,” you added.
Then you shifted onto his lap, facing him.
Tom’s hands moved automatically to your waist, holding you there. His attention stayed fixed on your face now, no longer the screen.
You leaned toward his ear.
“Keep watching.”
Your lips brushed the skin beneath it.
Tom inhaled sharply.
You kissed down the side of his neck, then caught the hem of his shirt and pulled it upward. He lifted his arms without argument, letting you remove it before his hands returned immediately to your hips.
He was visibly aroused now, his body tense beneath yours.
You smiled against his throat.
“You’re not watching.”
“You’re making that difficult.”
“Try.”
You kissed him once, slow and deep, then slipped from his lap and lowered yourself between his knees.
Tom looked down at you.
His expression changed instantly.
“Y/N.”
You placed one hand against his thigh.
“Keep watching.”
His eyes moved reluctantly back toward the laptop as you reached for his belt.
The buckle gave with a quiet metallic sound.
Tom’s hand came down over yours.
For one second, you thought he might stop you.
Instead, his fingers curled around your wrist again, his thumb pressing against your pulse.
“You planned this,” he murmured.
You looked up at him.
“I definitely did not.”
“That is somehow less reassuring.”
You smiled and drew the belt slowly through the loops.
On the screen, the man beneath pulled his partner closer, his face open and unguarded as he surrendered without becoming passive.
Tom’s eyes remained fixed on it.
Mostly.
Every few seconds, his gaze dropped back to you.
You leaned forward, your breath a hot ghost against the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his jeans.
He was already straining against the denim, a thick, hard ridge that pulsed with a need so raw you could practically taste it in the air.
“Watch,” you told him again.
The word left your lips as a warm, damp whisper against his belly, a command so soft it was almost a caress.
He exhaled, a shuddering breath that seemed to deflate any last vestige of resistance. His eyes, dark and already half-lidded with lust, obediently snapped back to the cinematic carnage unfolding before him.
Your fingers, deliberate and slow, made quick work of the button and zipper of his jeans then.
The rasp of the metal teeth parting was a sharp, metallic counterpoint to the wet, slapping sounds from the movie.
You tugged the rough fabric down, peeling it away from his hips along with his boxers, and his cock sprang free, bobbing heavily in the flickering light. It was a beautiful, brutal thing—thick, flushed an angry, needy red, a single, glistening pearl of pre-cum already beading at the slit.
The scent of him, a heady, intimate blend of salt and clean male musk, flooded your senses.
The movie was a masterclass in raw obscenity. On the screen, two men were locked in a violent, ecstatic struggle on a bare mattress. One, a brute with a shaved head and a back sheened with sweat, had the other pinned down, his thick, veined cock a relentless piston driving deep into him.
The camera lingered, unflinching, on the point of union, the way the tight ring of muscle stretched to accommodate the invasion, then clung to the shaft as it withdrew, only to be filled again with a wet, squelching thrust.
The man beneath was a mess of moans, his face contorted, mouth hanging open in a constant, guttural cry. The sounds were a symphony of the profane: the rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack, guttural grunts that vibrated from deep within the top's chest, and the bottom’s high, keening whimper that pitched upward into a desperate scream with every punishing stroke.
You didn't just hear it; you felt it. The vibrations thrummed through the floorboards and up into your knees.
Your mouth found the tip of Tom’s cock, your tongue darting out to capture that salty, transparent bead. The taste detonated on your tongue—pure, unadulterated - him.
You traced the swollen, velvet-smooth crown in slow, lazy circles, smearing the slippery fluid, before sealing your lips around him and sucking, a soft, wet pull that made his whole body go rigid.
His breath hitched in his throat, a sharp, surprised gasp, but his gaze remained riveted to the screen where the top had just seized the bottom’s jaw, fingers digging brutally into his cheeks, forcing his face toward him in a searing kiss.
You took Tom deeper then, your jaw relaxing, your throat opening as you swallowed him down.
The salty, musky taste intensified, coating your tongue, filling your mouth and the back of your throat.
You hollowed your cheeks, creating a tight, wet suction, and began to move, a steady, undulating rhythm that matched the pounding on the screen.
Up and down, your lips a tight seal around his thick shaft, your tongue laving and lapping at the prominent vein that throbbed on the underside.
With every descent, you felt him hit the back of your throat, and you held him there for a dizzying second, your throat muscles convulsing greedily around the head before you would slowly, torturously pull back to the tip, making a wet, obscene popping sound as you broke the seal just to capture him again.
Your hands were not idle. One cupped his heavy, drawn-up balls, rolling them gently within the loose warmth of their sack with a practiced, knowing pressure. The other worked the base of his shaft where your mouth could not reach, twisting in a slow corkscrew motion that made his hips twitch beneath you.
On-screen, the man on top’s pace turned frantic. The slap of skin intensified into a furious, wet percussion. The man beneath him was reduced to one long, ragged cry, his body trembling and his toes curling into the mattress. His neglected cock struck uselessly against his stomach, leaking steadily as every relentless thrust drove another broken sound from him.
“Watch him,” you murmured, pulling off for a moment, your voice a hoarse, slick whisper against his soaked, throbbing length.
A thick, glistening strand of saliva connected your bottom lip to his cock head, proof of your devotion.
You pumped him with your hand, a tight, fast grip, using your spit as lubricant, the sound a lewd, rhythmic squelching.
“Watch how much he loves it.”
Your tongue dipped down to lave at his balls, sucking one whole into the heat of your mouth before releasing it with a pop and dragging the flat of your tongue all the way back up the thick, pulsing vein of his shaft.
Tom’s hands had flown to the blanket nearby, knuckles white, fingernails digging in. A low, desperate moan was torn from deep in his chest as his eyes were glued to the screen.
“I’m… fuck, I’m close,” Tom ground out, the words barely coherent, more a panted warning. His hips were no longer still; they bucked involuntarily in tiny, stuttered thrusts, trying to fuck up into your hand, into your waiting mouth.
You yielded to him, drawing him back into the heat of your mouth at the very moment the man on screen released a raw, resonant groan.
The video captured his length—slick, thick, and fiercely aroused—sinking into a body that had become utterly open, pliant and glistening with exertion.
Then, with one final, deep thrust, he buried himself completely and climaxed—which was ultimately what sent Tom over the edge as well.
At the exact same moment, you took Tom impossibly deep, your nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base, your throat swallowing around the head in a rippling, muscular contraction.
Tom’s world shattered. A raw, choked cry was ripped from his throat as the first thick, hot jet of cum erupted against the back of your mouth.
It was a visceral, primal flood—rope after thick, salty, bitter rope pumping directly onto your tongue. You swallowed reflexively, the muscles of your throat milking him for more, and then you did it again, deliberately, savoring the potent, musky essence of his release, the way it coated your entire mouth and throat with a satisfying, lingering heat.
He throbbed and pulsed for long seconds, his body a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit, his hips still making those small, helpless thrusts as you continued to suck, drawing out every last drop, milking him through the aftershocks until the sensation became too acute, too painfully pleasurable.
Only then did you pull back slowly, letting his now-softening, glistening cock slip from your lips with a final, wet, parting kiss. A single strand of saliva still connected you for a moment before stretching thin and breaking across his thigh.
Tom was a crumpled, undone masterpiece, his chest heaving as though he had run for miles, his eyes glassy and unfocused but still, impossibly, fixed on the screen.
There, the two men had collapsed into a tangled, sweat-damp heap of limbs, their earlier intensity spent. The room on-screen was filled now only with the sound of their ragged, satisfied breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress beneath them.
You watched Tom watch them, the lingering taste of him still warm on your tongue—a rich, delicious reminder of what had just happened.
He finally turned his head to look at you.
His expression held the same dazed reverence, as though he had witnessed—and somehow become part of—something profoundly obscene and achingly beautiful.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then Tom looked down at you, at your damp hair, your bare knees against the floor and the towel abandoned somewhere behind you.
His mouth twitched.
“You are completely insane.”
You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb.
“You enjoyed it.”
“That is not a defence.”
“It is a little bit.”
He let out a breath that almost became a laugh and reached for you, his fingers closing gently around your wrist.
You allowed him to pull you upward.
The moment you were close enough, Tom caught your face between both hands and kissed you. It was slower than before. Softer. Still warm with everything that had just happened, but stripped of urgency.
When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours.
The video continued playing quietly behind you.
Tom glanced toward it.
Then reached over and shut the laptop.
The room dropped into sudden silence.
You smiled.
“Are we done with our research?”
He gave you a tired look.
“I think we’ve gathered enough data for one evening.”
You laughed and climbed carefully into his lap.
His arms came around you automatically, holding you close while the last tension gradually left his body.
You rested your head against his shoulder.
For a minute, neither of you moved.
Then you lifted your face.
“Bed?”
Tom looked at you, exhausted, flushed and still slightly stunned.
“Yes.”
His hands tightened around your waist as he stood, taking you with him.
“Definitely bed.”
*******
Several hours later, the bedroom looked as though something structural had happened to it.
The sheets had been pulled loose from two corners. One pillow was on the floor. A glass of water had somehow migrated beneath the chair, and several items that had absolutely not been there when you went upstairs were now scattered across the carpet.
You lay on your stomach diagonally across the bed, one leg tangled with Tom’s and your face half buried in the remaining pillow.
Tom was beside you on his back, breathing slowly now, one arm folded behind his head. His hair was damp at the temples, and the flush had not entirely disappeared from his chest.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
Then Tom turned his head toward you.
“Were you serious?”
You opened one eye.
“About what?”
His eyebrows rose.
You considered the preceding hours.
There were several possibilities.
“You will need to be more specific.”
Tom looked toward the ceiling.
“About being that turned on by watching that – you know what.”
You lifted your head from the pillow.
“Yes.”
He looked back at you.
“That quickly?”
“It wasn’t a difficult question.”
Tom rubbed one hand slowly over his face.
You shifted closer and rested your chin against his shoulder.
Then -
“I meant what I said a while ago.”
You kissed the side of his chest.
His eyes opened again.
“Which was?”
“That I would like to see you with another man.”
He went still.
The conversation had come up theoretically a few weeks ago. Then, today, it became strange and tangled up with the video.
Here, in the quieter bedroom, it sounded more real.
You traced one finger lightly across his ribs.
“Not because I think you need something I can’t give you,” you added. “And not because I want to test anything.”
Tom’s expression softened slightly.
“Then why?”
You thought about it.
Not for very long.
“Because it’s part of you.”
His gaze remained fixed on your face.
“And because it is incredibly hot,” you continued.
Tom’s mouth twitched.
“Unbelievable.”
“What? I can be emotionally insightful and horny at the same time.”
“Apparently.”
You moved your hand lower over his stomach, not trying to start anything again, simply touching him because you could.
“I would want to watch,” you said. “And be involved a little.”
Tom’s eyebrows rose.
“A little.”
“Kissing you. Touching you. Maybe helping.”
“Helping?”
You smiled.
“You know what I mean.”
“I suspect I do, but after tonight I’m reluctant to assume.”
You laughed and tucked your face against his neck.
Tom’s arm came around you automatically.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then:
“I don’t know how comfortable I would be watching you with another man.”
You pulled back.
“I don’t want another man.”
He frowned.
“You’ve just said—”
“I said I want to watch you with one.”
“That sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a threesome.”
“Technically, yes.”
Tom stared.
You corrected yourself.
“But not in the traditional everyone-with-everyone sense.”
“There are traditional rules now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Again, I am becoming less certain.”
You pushed yourself up onto one elbow.
“I don’t want some random man touching me.”
His face relaxed before he could hide it.
You noticed.
“You look relieved.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Tom looked away.
“Perhaps marginally.”
You smiled and kissed his jaw.
“I want to watch and play.”
His attention returned to you.
“Watch and play.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like something printed on the side of a children’s activity centre.”
“Not this one.”
Tom laughed, then immediately tried not to.
You settled against him again.
“You would be the centre of attention.”
“That is not as reassuring as you think.”
“You love attention.”
“No I don’t.”
“Liar.”
He pinched your side.
You jerked away, laughing, then hit him lightly with the pillow.
Tom caught it before it reached his face.
“Violence.”
“You deserved it.”
He placed the pillow over your head.
“Tom.”
“I’m considering your proposal.”
Your voice came muffled through the fabric.
“You cannot suffocate me during negotiations.”
He removed it.
Your hair had become completely unmanageable.
Tom stared at you for a second, then reached out and attempted to smooth it.
He made it worse.
“If,” he said carefully, “we found the right person…”
You became still.
“Yes?”
“We could revisit the conversation.”
Your smile appeared before you could stop it.
Tom noticed.
“Revisit,” he emphasised. “Not immediately begin interviewing candidates.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You opened fifteen tabs within an hour.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“The internet was already there.”
Tom looked deeply unconvinced.
“The right person would need to be someone we both trust,” he continued. “And someone we both feel comfortable with.”
“Obviously.”
“And as much as I am into the thought of doing this with you, there would need to be very clear boundaries.”
You opened your mouth to agree and suggest frank just as your phone began vibrating on the bedside table.
Both of you looked toward it.
The sound stopped.
Then began again almost immediately.
You groaned.
“Who is calling at this hour?” Tom asked.
You reached blindly toward the table.
The first attempt knocked over a packet of tissues. The second found the phone.
The screen showed three missed calls.
Dad.
You stared at it.
“It’s my father.”
Tom glanced toward the clock.
“Is something wrong?”
“Probably not. He calls repeatedly when he wants an answer before I have time to invent a reason not to give him one.”
The phone continued vibrating in your hand.
Tom nodded toward it.
“You should answer.”
You looked around the bedroom.
At the sheets.
At Tom.
You looked back at the phone.
“I really should not.”
“If it’s urgent—”
“Nothing about this environment supports a conversation with my father.”
The phone stopped.
You exhaled.
It immediately rang again.
Tom pressed his lips together.
You pointed at him.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m not.”
He was.
You answered.
“Hello?”
Your father’s voice arrived at full volume.
“I called three times.”
You closed your eyes.
“I noticed.”
“In the past hour.”
“I was busy.”
Tom turned his face into the pillow.
His shoulders moved.
You kicked his leg.
Your father continued.
“Busy with what?”
Your gaze drifted toward the floor again.
Tom followed it.
The abandoned “equipment” remained where it was.
You panicked.
“Exercise.”
Tom’s head lifted sharply.
There was a pause on the phone.
“What?”
“I was exercising.”
Tom covered his mouth.
You glared at him.
“At this time of night?” your father asked.
“I went to the gym.”
Tom silently mouthed, The gym?
You slapped one hand over his mouth.
Your father sounded unconvinced.
“Right.”
“Why are you calling?”
Tom kissed the centre of your palm.
You pulled your hand away before the distraction became worse.
“Your mother and I are going to the country house for the long weekend.”
You waited.
“And?”
“We would like you to come.”
You glanced at Tom.
He watched your face, amusement fading into curiosity.
“I’m spending the weekend with Tom.”
Your father sighed.
“You always spend the weekend with Tom.”
You looked at Tom.
He smiled.
You turned away from him.
“That isn’t true.”
Tom lifted his eyebrows.
You pointed warningly at him.
“Bring him,” your father said.
You stopped.
“What?”
Tom sat up slightly.
“Bring Tom.”
You looked directly at him now.
He mouthed, What?
You held up one finger.
“You want Tom to come to the country house?”
“That is what I just said.”
“Voluntarily?”
Your father exhaled.
“Do not make me reconsider.”
You stared at the wall.
This had all the structural features of a trap.
“Why?”
“Because your mother would like to see you both, and because avoiding him indefinitely is impractical.”
From beside you, Tom silently mouthed, Avoiding me?
You shook your head at him.
“Arthur and Leo are coming,” your father continued. “Denise will be there as well.”
You frowned.
“Denise?”
“Yes.”
You had not seen Denise properly in years.
She was your parents’ goddaughter, several years older than you, with three children, an estranged husband and a schedule apparently designed to prevent her from occupying the same postcode as anyone she knew.
You had exchanged birthday messages. Christmas messages. The occasional promise to meet for lunch that neither of you ever successfully arranged.
“She’s bringing the children?”
“Yes.”
You looked at Tom.
He had caught enough of the conversation to appear increasingly suspicious.
“How many nights?” you asked.
“Three.”
“Three?”
“It is a long weekend.”
“I understand how weekends work.”
Tom made a doubtful expression.
You kicked him again.
Your father ignored the comment.
“Consider it. Your mother wants an answer by morning.”
“Of course she does.”
“And speak to Tom.”
You looked at the man sitting naked beside you, his hair disordered, a red mark visible near his collarbone and a deeply unhelpful smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.
“I’ll speak to him.”
“Good.”
Your father ended the call without saying goodbye.
You lowered the phone slowly.
Tom waited.
“The gym?”
You threw the pillow at him.
This time it hit him directly in the face.
He caught it and began laughing.
“It was the first thing that came into my head.”
“You told your father you went to the gym after midnight.”
“It’s London. There are gyms open.”
“Not ones you attend.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
Tom looked toward the floor.
“You could have said you were asleep.”
You followed his gaze.
“I wasn’t prepared.”
“Clearly.”
You took the pillow back and hit him once more, less forcefully.
He caught your wrist and pulled you against him.
“What did he want?”
You settled half across his chest.
“My parents invited us to the country house for three nights.”
Tom’s expression shifted.
“Us?”
“Yes.”
“He specifically invited me?”
“He said avoiding you indefinitely was impractical.”
Tom considered this.
“Warm.”
“Practically affectionate by his standards.”
“And your mother?”
“Apparently wants us there.”
Tom looked toward the ceiling.
“That is more concerning.”
“Arthur and Leo are coming.”
“Good.”
“And Denise.”
“Who is Denise?”
You explained.
Tom listened, one hand moving slowly along your back.
“Three children?”
“Yes.”
“What ages?”
You paused.
“I have no idea.”
“You just said you exchange birthday messages.”
“I don’t read them analytically.”
Tom gave you a look.
“One is small. One is slightly less small. The oldest might be twelve.”
“That is impressively unhelpful.”
“They grow when I’m not looking.”
Tom laughed quietly.
You propped your chin on his chest.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Do you want to go?”
He looked at you for several seconds.
“Do you?”
“I asked first.”
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Ask my opinion before admitting your own.”
You traced a shape against his chest with one finger.
“I think it’s a trap.”
“It is almost certainly a trap.”
“But Arthur and Leo will be there.”
“Yes.”
“And Denise’s children will prevent my mother from conducting a continuous interrogation.”
“Potentially.”
“And there will be food.”
Tom’s mouth curved.
“Strong argument.”
You looked at him.
“You don’t have to come.”
His hand stopped against your back.
“I know.”
“My parents are difficult.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“My father may try to speak to you alone.”
“He has done that before.”
“At seven-thirty in the morning.”
“Yes.”
You sighed.
“You’re not making this easier.”
He lifted one hand and tucked your hair behind your ear.
“I’ll come.”
You studied his face.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Why?”
Tom looked mildly surprised by the question.
“Because you’re going.”
Your expression softened before you could prevent it.
He noticed.
“And,” he added, “because apparently avoiding me indefinitely is impractical.”
You laughed and kissed him.
Tom’s arm tightened around you.
When you pulled back, he looked toward the floor once more.
“We should probably pack that away before morning in case your daughter comes here.”
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader
The ten days that followed were full on. Not dramatic in the same concentrated, catastrophic way as the article coming out. There were no more people being invasive while not trying to be invasive. No additional photographs of Tom kissing former male lovers appeared online. Instead, life became crowded. Messy. Domestic. Public in places neither of you wanted it to be and unexpectedly private in others.
The first complication was the hamster. Somehow, Ellie managed to obtain permission from both parents separately, with each parent under the impression that the other had already agreed to take primary responsibility for it. She had apparently begun negotiations before the scandal. The public outing of her father had merely delayed the final paperwork.
You discovered the operation on Wednesday morning when Ruth rang Tom while the three of you were having breakfast. Ellie had stayed another night because she said she did not want to return to school from her mother’s house and have Ruth watch her leave with that face. Ruth had demanded clarification regarding which face. Ellie had demonstrated it. Tom wisely stayed out of that argument.
He was standing at the kitchen counter making coffee when his phone rang. He looked at the name, hesitated, then answered. “Morning.” Ruth did not appear to offer a greeting. Tom frowned almost immediately. “What hamster?”
Ellie stopped chewing. You looked across the table at her. She looked straight back at you, completely expressionless.
Tom turned slowly. “Ellie.”
She swallowed. “Yes?”
Tom held up one finger and continued listening. His eyebrows rose. “No, she told me you had agreed.” You lowered your spoon. Ellie reached for her orange juice. Tom’s eyes narrowed. “She said it would stay predominantly at your house.” Another pause. “No, I agreed provided it predominantly stayed with you.”
You covered your mouth. Ellie drank calmly. Tom looked at you. You mouthed, She played you both.
His face tightened as he tried not to laugh. Ruth continued speaking. “Shared residence?” Tom repeated. “It’s a hamster, Ruth. It doesn’t have a preferred school district.”
Ellie put down her glass. “Hamsters benefit from stability.”
Tom stared at her. Ruth evidently heard. “Yes, she’s here,” Tom said. “No, I did not know she had prepared a custody proposal.”
Ellie reached into her school bag and produced a clear plastic folder. You began laughing. Tom closed his eyes. “She has a folder.”
Ruth said something that made him rub his forehead. “Yes, I appreciate that this is technically my fault genetically.”
Ellie slid the folder across the kitchen island. The front page read:
PROPOSAL FOR THE RESPONSIBLE SHARED CARE OF ONE SYRIAN HAMSTER
There was a contents page. A weekly schedule. A projected budget. A list of recommended foods. An entire section on enrichment.
Tom turned a page. “You’ve included emergency veterinary contacts.”
“Obviously.”
“And a transport plan.”
“He’ll need a smaller travel enclosure. Just like Y/N has for Thomas.”
“He?”
Ellie shrugged. “Yes. So he can play with Thomas.”
Tom looked down at the document again. “There’s a paragraph headed Emotional Continuity.”
“It matters.”
“To whom?”
“The hamster.”
Ruth was still talking through the phone. Tom held it away from his ear briefly. “Your mother says she only agreed because you told her I was okay to house it.”
Ellie looked mildly offended. “I said you are already housing a hamster. So housing another wasn’t a problem.”
You leaned your elbows on the table. “She has a point.”
Tom turned to you. “Do not encourage this.”
“I’m remaining neutral during the custody negotiations.”
Ellie pointed to the folder. “You’re listed as emergency contact.”
You blinked. “Am I?”
Tom flicked through the pages until he found it. There you were.
Emergency Rodent Contact: Y/N.
Below that:
Reason: Calm in crisis. More practical than Dad.
Tom read it twice. “More practical than Dad?”
Ellie shifted in her chair. “You panic.”
“I do not panic.”
You and Ellie looked at him. He straightened. “I respond quickly to emerging situations.”
“You screamed when the toaster sparked,” Ellie said.
“The toaster was on fire.”
“There was a crumb burning.”
“There was smoke.”
You nodded solemnly. “Very dangerous.”
Tom looked between you both and returned the phone to his ear. “Fine. Yes. Apparently I’m outnumbered.”
The final arrangement was negotiated before Ellie left for school. The hamster would live predominantly at Tom’s house. It would visit Ruth’s house on selected weekends, provided Ellie transported it properly and Ruth did not put the cage in direct sunlight. Both households would keep food and bedding. Tom would pay for the veterinary expenses. Ellie would clean the enclosure. You would remain emergency contact despite having no involvement in the animal’s conception, purchase or legal arrangements.
Tom objected to the phrase shared custody. Ellie produced a contract after school. It had paw prints drawn along the bottom. Tom signed it under protest.
The hamster arrived two days later as an early birthday present. Ellie selected him after forty-seven minutes in the pet shop and rejected every name suggested by either adult. Basil lasted through the drive home. Mr Darcy survived until dinner. David Bowie made it almost an hour before Ellie finally announced that his name was Nibbles.
Tom paused halfway through assembling a new tunnelling system.
“Nibbles?”
Ellie crouched beside the travel carrier.
“Yes.”
“That is extremely literal.”
“He nibbles.”
The hamster pressed both front paws against the plastic and began chewing determinedly at the air vent.
You tilted your head.
“She has a point.”
Tom looked at you.
“You’ve already named a hamster after me. I don’t think you’re entitled to an opinion on appropriate rodent names.”
Your hamster Tom had been temporarily relocated from your flat along with several bags of clothes, two boxes of books and most of your bathroom products. You still insisted this did not constitute moving in.
His enclosure sat on the opposite side of the open study room now, which was rapidly becoming less of a study and more of a small-animal residential facility.
Ellie carried Nibbles there for the formal introduction.
Tom followed behind her with the new enclosure instructions in one hand and a bag of bedding tucked beneath his arm, just in case the hamsters didn’t get along.
“Do hamsters even want to meet other hamsters?” he asked, sceptical to see whether this was actually a good idea.
“Not physically,” Ellie said. “They’re territorial. We’re doing a supervised visual introduction from separate carriers.”
Tom stopped on the stairs.
“Of course we are.”
You smiled over your shoulder.
“There are protocols.”
“There are suddenly protocols for everything in my house.”
The two carriers were placed several feet apart on the floor. Your hamster Tom emerged from his bedding, sat upright and stared across the room. Nibbles pressed himself against the side of his carrier and stared back.
For nearly thirty seconds, neither moved.
Ellie crouched between them.
“They like each other.”
Tom leaned against the doorframe.
“They are looking at each other.”
“That’s how hamsters begin friendships.”
“Is it?”
You sat cross-legged beside Tom’s enclosure.
“Tom usually hides from everyone, so this is significant.”
Tom looked down at you.
“Please specify which Tom.”
You pointed at the cage.
“Hamster Tom.”
Nibbles shuffled closer to the side of his carrier. Hamster Tom mirrored him from across the gap, whiskers moving rapidly.
Ellie smiled.
“See? They’re getting along.”
Tom surveyed the room: one large enclosure, one partially assembled second enclosure, bags of bedding, wooden tunnels, two exercise wheels, a cardboard box filled with treats and both you and Ellie sitting on the floor discussing the emotional lives of rodents.
He lowered the instructions.
“Wow.”
You looked up.
“What?”
“There are now two hamsters in my house.”
Ellie nodded.
“Yes.”
Tom stared around the room again.
“That escalated quickly.”
You smiled.
“You signed the contract.”
He pointed the folded instructions directly at you.
“I blame you.”
Your mouth fell open.
“Me?”
“You brought the first one.”
“I didn’t bring him here permanently. He is just visiting with me.”
Tom looked toward Hamster Tom’s enclosure, beside which sat an enormous bag of food with his address printed on the delivery label.
Then he looked toward the stack of your belongings in the corner.
“Of course not.”
“He’s only staying while I’m staying.”
Ellie looked at you.
Then at Tom.
“So permanently.”
Tom pressed his lips together.
You pointed at her.
“You stay out of this.”
“I am just spending time here sometimes.”
Ellie snorted and then corrected you.
“All the time.”
The shared-living arrangement for Nibbles lasted exactly one visit to Ruth’s house. Ruth arrived on Sunday evening, took one look at the travel carrier, the food container, the bedding bag, the cleaning kit and Ellie’s laminated care instructions, then said Nibbles could remain at Tom’s provided Ellie still considered him jointly loved.
Ellie found this perfectly acceptable.
Tom did not realise he had become the full-time custodian until Ruth’s car had disappeared and Nibbles remained on the kitchen table.
He stood beside the carrier.
“She’s left him.”
You were washing glasses.
“Apparently.”
“This wasn’t the agreement.”
“You signed the contract.”
“The contract said shared custody.”
“You should have obtained legal advice.”
Nibbles began scratching at the corner of the carrier.
Tom looked down at him.
“Don’t start.”
You smiled.
“He missed you.”
“He has known me for forty-eight hours.”
“An intense bond.”
Tom picked up the carrier.
“I’m putting him into the study.”
“With his new best friend.”
“They are not best friends. They exchanged a prolonged look from separate plastic boxes.”
“That is practically intimacy for hamsters.”
Tom glanced toward the ceiling, where two separate enclosures now occupied what had once been an ordinary study room.
“Two hamsters,” he muttered. “In my house.”
You dried your hands and followed him toward the stairs.
“You’re taking it very well.”
He looked back at you.
“I continue to blame you.”
And he did. Daily.
Every time he found bedding on the carpet, another wooden tunnel arriving in the post or both you and Ellie sitting on the floor discussing the hamsters’ emotional progress, Tom reminded you that none of this had existed before you entered his life.
You and Ellie nevertheless made a determined effort to introduce Tom and Nibbles properly. Everything you read warned that hamsters were solitary and territorial, so the process remained carefully supervised. Separate enclosures. Separate food. No shared sleeping space. No opportunity for either of them to commit what Tom referred to as rodent homicide.
For their first proper meeting, you prepared a large shallow sandbox in the middle of the spare-room floor. It was completely neutral territory, filled with clean sand, cardboard tunnels and enough space for you to separate them immediately if either became aggressive.
Tom stood in the doorway with his arms folded.
“This seems irresponsible.”
Ellie lowered Nibbles carefully into one end of the box.
“We researched it.”
You placed Hamster Tom at the other end.
“We have gloves.”
Tom looked at the thick gardening gloves beside your knee.
“That does not reassure me.”
For several seconds, both hamsters remained completely still. Then Nibbles moved forward. Hamster Tom shuffled toward him, their noses touched, and both immediately retreated.
Ellie grabbed your arm.
“They kissed.”
“They smelled each other,” Tom corrected.
Nibbles approached again. This time Hamster Tom remained where he was. They circled each other cautiously, whiskers moving, before wandering in opposite directions to explore the cardboard tunnels.
You looked up triumphantly.
“They’re bonding.”
Tom watched as Nibbles followed Hamster Tom into the same tunnel.
“They are investigating a tube.”
“Together,” Ellie said.
Against every reasonable expectation, the introductions continued to go well. They could never be housed together, and neither you nor Ellie took your eyes off them during their short sandbox meetings, but they showed no aggression. They sniffed each other, followed each other through the tunnels and occasionally sat side by side digging furiously at the sand.
Ellie referred to these sessions as playdates.
Tom referred to them as supervised diplomatic negotiations.
He still blamed you every time he walked past the room and saw two enormous enclosures where his study desk had once been properly visible.
By the time he went to meet Sam and Rob for drinks later that week, his house contained two hamsters, most of your belongings and a laminated schedule titled RODENT SOCIALISATION SESSIONS attached to the fridge.
According to Tom, all of it was your fault.
*********
That week, Tom had also had the conversation with his parents, which was a very delayed coming out of some sort.
Tom had been putting it off for days after the article had dropped without admitting he was putting it off. He called his mother twice and hung up before the call connected. Then he spent twenty minutes rearranging papers in the study while pretending he was looking for something.
You were sitting on the edge of the desk watching him open the same drawer for the third time. “Tom.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to tell me to call them.”
“I was going to ask why you keep looking in a drawer that contains three batteries and a takeaway menu from 2019.”
He shut it. “I might need the batteries.”
“Call your parents.”
He looked toward the phone. “You make everything sound very simple.”
“It is simple.”
His expression sharpened. You softened yours. “Not easy. Simple.”
He exhaled and picked up the phone. You slid off the desk. “I’ll go upstairs.”
His hand caught yours before you could pass him. “You don’t have to.”
“You should have privacy.”
He looked down at your joined hands. “Could you stay nearby?”
Your chest tightened. “Of course.”
You left the study n and went to run a bath. You could not hear every word, only pieces. His mother’s voice through the speaker when it lifted. His father asking a question. Tom saying, “No, Dad. It doesn’t mean that.” Then, later, “I’m not ashamed of it. I’m ashamed that Ellie had to find out through a newspaper.”
The call lasted nearly an hour. When Tom finally came upstairs, the bath had gone lukewarm and you were reading on your phone with one foot resting against the tap. He stood in the bathroom doorway. He looked tired. Not shattered. Not furious. Just emotionally scraped out.
You put the phone down. “How was it?”
He removed his glasses.
“Fine.”
You waited.
He stepped farther into the bathroom, but instead of sitting on the closed toilet lid, he lowered himself beside the bath. One knee touched the floor, then the other, his forearms resting against the edge near your hand.
“Actually fine?”
He looked at you.
“Yes. Actually fine.”
You studied his face for another second, searching for the part he might still be hiding.
There was exhaustion there. Emotion too. But no devastation. No fresh wound he was trying to disguise as calm.
You let your hand drift toward him through the water. He caught it gently, lacing his fingers through yours despite the water running over his wrist.
His thumb brushed slowly across your wet knuckles.
“They want us to visit.”
You looked up.
“Us?”
“You and me.”
“Your mother wants to inspect me.”
“Almost certainly.”
“Should I bring identification?”
“References may help.”
Your mouth curved.
“Protective equipment?”
That finally made him smile.
“Possibly.”
You tugged harder on his wrist. “Come here.”
“You’re wet.”
“It’s a bath, Tom.”
He leaned down anyway. You wrapped both damp arms around his neck and held him until the tension eased from his shoulders.
*********
That week, Tom also went for drinks with Sam and Rob. They had both checked in after the photographs emerged, but Tom had avoided seeing them in person. Not because he expected rejection. Because he expected questions. The wrong sympathy. The moment when someone who had known you for years looked at you as if you had become a slightly different person because they had learned a fact you had never told them.
He changed his shirt twice before leaving. You watched from the bed. “It’s a pub.”
“I know.”
“Rob has seen you vomit into a plant pot.”
Tom stopped buttoning his cuff. “Why do you know that?”
“Rob told me.”
“Rob tells everyone everything.”
“Then this evening should be easy.”
He gave you a flat look. You got up and crossed the room.
“They love you.”
“I know.”
“You’re still nervous.”
He looked at you. “A little.”
You adjusted the collar he had already adjusted six times. “You don’t owe them every detail.”
“I know.”
“You also don’t have to pretend you’re fine if you aren’t.”
His hands settled at your waist. “I know.”
You smiled. “Good talk.”
He kissed you, then kissed you again, slower. His thumb stroked beneath your ribs. “I won’t be late.”
“Be as late as you like.”
“You’re staying here?”
You glanced around his bedroom. Your book was on his bedside table. Your charger was plugged into the wall. Your sleep shirt lay beneath his pillow because he had thrown it there that morning.
“Apparently.”
The drinks went better than he expected. You knew this because he came home after midnight smelling of beer, cold air and cigarettes, with the slightly loose, relieved expression of someone who had spent the evening bracing for a difficult conversation that had never really arrived.
You were sitting on the sofa with Maddy. The living room had been taken over by laundry and several new pieces she had brought over for you, because that was what Maddy did. She supplied you with designer clothes you claimed were too good to wear, then personally removed the old things you wore to death before you could rescue them from the donation pile.
Tom stopped in the doorway.
Maddy was holding one of his navy jumpers.
You were wearing another.
A pile of clothing had been separated across the sofa beneath handwritten labels:
YOURS.
HIS.
UNCLEAR BUT ALMOST CERTAINLY HIS.
LINGERIE HE HAS DAMAGED.
Tom read the final label. “What does that mean?”
Maddy looked at him. “You know exactly what it means.”
He glanced at you. You lifted your wine glass. “Hello.”
Tom removed his coat. “What happened?”
Maddy pointed the jumper at him. “You happened.”
“I’ve only just arrived.”
“Your influence predates your arrival.”
Tom looked at the piles. “Why are my clothes down here?”
“Because she is living in them and I am confused.”
You frowned. “I am not living in them.”
Maddy held up a white shirt. “Yours?”
You looked at it. “Possibly.”
She checked the label. “His initials are embroidered inside.”
“Coincidence.”
Tom started laughing. Maddy turned on him. “Do not encourage her.”
He crossed the room and bent to kiss you. Maddy threw a sock at his shoulder.
“You spend every day together.”
Tom straightened. “We do not.”
You looked at him. He looked at you. Maddy folded her arms. Tom reconsidered. “Most days.”
“Every day,” Maddy said. “It is disgusting. Both of you are currently unemployed between projects and have apparently decided to use the time to merge into one unbearable person.”
You wrapped one arm around Tom’s waist. “I missed him.”
“He was gone for four hours.”
Tom looked down at you. His face softened. Maddy saw it happen.
“That,” she said. “That exact look. Stop.”
Tom sat beside you. You immediately shifted closer. Maddy closed her eyes. “I hate love.”
“How were drinks?” you asked.
Tom accepted your wine glass and took a sip. “Fine.”
You studied him. “Fine?”
“Sam asked whether Frank was a good kisser.”
Maddy’s eyes opened. “Is he?”
Tom looked at her. “I’m not discussing that.”
“So yes.”
You smiled into his shoulder. “What did Rob say?”
Tom handed back the wine. “Rob asked whether I had ever fancied him.”
You began laughing. “What did you say?”
“No.”
“How quickly?”
Tom’s expression became defensive. “Immediately.”
“Was he offended?”
“Deeply.”
Maddy nodded. “Fair.”
“I’m allowed not to fancy every man I know.”
“Obviously,” you said. “But Rob thinks he’s beautiful.”
“Rob thinks everyone thinks he’s beautiful.”
“Did they ask anything serious?”
The humour faded slightly. Tom leaned back. “Sam asked why I never told him.”
“What did you say?”
“That I hadn’t told most people.” His fingers found yours between the sofa cushions. “He said he wished I had, but only because he hated the idea that I thought it would matter.”
You squeezed his hand.
“That’s nice.”
Tom looked at you, the tension in his face easing slightly. You leaned in and kissed him, soft and brief at first, though his hand came up to your jaw and kept you there for another second.
From the other end of the sofa, Maddy made a loud sound of disgust.
“Ugh. Absolutely revolting.”
You pulled back just enough to look at her.
“What?”
She pointed at Tom.
“You’ve ruined her.”
Tom glanced at you.
“I’m not sure she was particularly well-behaved before.”
“She used to have dignity,” Maddy said. “Now she wears your jumpers, waits up for you and kisses you in front of innocent people.”
You settled back against Tom’s shoulder.
“You’re not innocent.”
“I was before this relationship.”
******
Meanwhile, the legal situation surrounding the newest scandal was less comforting. It took several meetings, two solicitors, Tom’s publicist, your publicist, Alana from production and information gathered by Daniel before everyone reluctantly came to the same conclusion.
The leak had almost certainly come from Layla. The timing matched. The unnamed source had repeated phrases she had used before. She almost certainly took the photos too.
But knowing and proving were different things. And proving something did not necessarily mean a court could do anything useful with it.
The meeting happened at Tom’s house. You sat beside him at the dining table while three faces appeared across a laptop screen. Daniel attended in person and kept his notes in a narrow black folder.
Tom had been calm for the first twenty minutes. Then the solicitor explained that the existing restrictions around Layla were based on her behaviour toward you. Her contact. Her surveillance. Her entry into your flat. Passing information about Tom’s past relationship to another person did not fit neatly inside those restrictions unless it could be directly established as another attempt to target or intimidate you.
Tom leaned forward. “It was obviously intended to target her as well as me.”
The solicitor remained careful. “It may have been.”
“May have been?”
You put one hand lightly against his thigh beneath the table. His muscles were rigid.
“She knew the photographs would hurt both of us.”
“That would need to be demonstrated.”
“She broke into her flat.”
“Which is being handled separately.”
Tom’s jaw shifted. “So because the information she leaked was about me, she gets away with it?”
“That is not what I’m saying.”
“It sounds remarkably like what you’re saying.”
Tom’s publicist stepped in. “Tom.”
“No. I would genuinely like someone to explain this to me without using the words proportionality or evidentiary threshold.”
The solicitor paused. “You are a public figure. Information concerning your previous relationships may be considered newsworthy, even if the way it was obtained or disclosed was intrusive. A civil action could potentially be explored, but it would be expensive, invasive and uncertain.”
“Invasive for whom?”
“For you. Frank. Y/N. Potentially Ellie.”
That stopped him. Only briefly.
“My daughter is already being questioned at school.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
You closed your hand around his. He looked at you. His anger remained, but he stopped moving.
Daniel spoke quietly from across the table. “We can document it. If she contacts anyone again or there’s a pattern, it strengthens the position.”
Tom laughed bitterly. “So we wait for her to do something else.”
“We remain prepared if she does,” Daniel corrected.
After the meeting ended, Tom shut the laptop too hard. The screen bounced against the hinge. You stayed seated while Daniel collected his papers, gave you both a brief nod and left through the front hall.
Tom stood. He paced to the window, back to the table, then into the kitchen.
“She still gets to affect us.”
“Yes,” you said, following him. “And I don’t think she’s well, Tom. I think she genuinely believed this would break us up.”
He looked at you sharply, as if he expected you to soften it or offer reassurance neither of you could prove.
You did not.
“She did something cruel,” you said. “And unfair. And we may never get the outcome we want from it.”
Tom looked away.
You stepped in front of him.
“But I’m still here.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“Ellie’s still here.” His mouth tightened. “Frank is still your friend. Sam and Rob are still idiots. Your parents still love you.”
You put your hands against his chest. “She exposed something. She didn’t destroy it.”
His breath left him slowly. His hands came to your waist. “I hate that you have to be sensible.”
“I’m not sensible.”
“You are right now.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
That got the smallest laugh from him. You rested your forehead against his. “Don’t give her more than she already took.”
He held you for a long time after that.
*******
The magazine interview happened because Maddy bullied you into a fashion shoot. That was the only accurate description. She called it an opportunity. You called it being dressed like an expensive lampshade while six strangers adjusted your hair.
The shoot took place in a converted warehouse filled with concrete, white screens and people who appeared to survive entirely on iced coffee. Maddy’s client’s new collection was severe and beautiful. Sharp black tailoring. Soft translucent layers. Metallic detailing. One dress consisted of a structured bodice, a long asymmetrical skirt and so little fabric around the side that your father later asked whether the designer had run out.
You spent most of the morning barefoot while assistants moved around you. Maddy appeared periodically to tug at a sleeve or issue threats to the photographer.
“Shoulders back,” she told you.
“My shoulders are back.”
“Emotionally, they’re slouching.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is in my studio.”
You looked toward the photographer. “Can you edit confidence in afterward?”
Maddy answered for him. “No.”
The interview was meant to accompany the photographs. Most of it was harmless. Your career. The film. What it had been like working with Kurt. Whether being Edward’s daughter had made opportunities easier or scrutiny worse. Your friendship with Maddy. Your own relationship with clothing, which was difficult to answer while wearing trousers that required two people and a small hook to close.
Then the interviewer placed her recorder slightly closer. Her tone changed. Not dramatically. Just enough.
“There has obviously been considerable attention around your personal life recently.”
You crossed one leg over the other.
“There has.”
“Was that difficult to navigate while filming?”
“It wasn’t ideal.”
She smiled.
“That’s very restrained.”
“I’m trying something new.”
Maddy, sitting several metres away, looked up from her phone.
The interviewer continued.
“The photographs involving your new boyfriend, Tom Sturridge, and photographer Frank Connor changed the public conversation quite significantly.”
“They shouldn’t have,” you said. “There was no betrayal, no overlap, and I knew about Frank before Tom and I got together. It hasn’t changed our relationship in the slightest.”
The interviewer paused, then leaned forward slightly.
“There have also been suggestions that the relationship between you and Tom may be mutually beneficial from a publicity standpoint.”
You stared at her.
“That would be a very elaborate arrangement.”
She laughed.
You did not.
Her smile faltered.
“So it is genuine?”
“Very much so,” you said. “And that is all I’m going to say about my personal life.”
The section made up less than a third of a page in the final article. Thank God.
The photographs took up twelve.
Tom read the entire preprint at the kitchen table a few days later, after your publicist had approved it, while you stood at the counter eating strawberries.
He reached the interview section and frowned.
“Invasive questions.”
“Yes.”
He turned the page.
“The photographs, though, are next level.”
You smiled around a strawberry.
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It is.”
He turned another page.
Then stopped.
You watched his eyes settle on one particular photograph: the one featuring the nearly fabricless dress.
“My father hated that one,” you said.
Tom did not look up.
“Your father needs a hobby.”
“He said I was wearing too little.”
“You are wearing too little.”
You smiled.
Tom realised what he had said and finally looked up.
“Not in a bad way.”
His ears had gone pink.
You walked around the table and stopped behind him.
“Maddy called it architectural.”
“It is not architecture.”
You leaned over his shoulder.
His eyes dropped immediately back to the photograph.
“You like it.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’ve been looking at it for thirty seconds.”
“I’m reading.”
You glanced at the page.
“There are no words on that page.”
Tom closed the magazine.
You laughed.
********
The school situation remained uncomfortable for Ellie. It was not constant. That almost made it worse. Some people acted exactly the same. Some were aggressively supportive in a way that made her feel like she had been personally appointed representative of all bisexual fathers. Others asked invasive questions disguised as curiosity.
One boy asked whether you were Tom’s beard. Another asked if Tom had left Ruth because he secretly preferred men. A girl Ellie had previously considered a friend asked whether Frank would be attending her birthday.
Ellie reported all of this over dinner with the weary contempt of someone discussing unusually stupid wildlife.
Tom took each new comment like a small physical injury. “What did the school say?”
Ellie stabbed a piece of broccoli. “That they’re monitoring the situation.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“I can ring them.”
“No.”
“Ellie—”
“Dad, no. That will make it worse.”
Tom looked at you. You lifted both hands. “She knows the school better than we do.”
“Someone called you –,” he began but you interrupted him.
“Do not finish that sentence.”
He opened his mouth. Stopped. Ellie waited. Tom looked helplessly at you again and nodded. Then he let it go.
The Instagram posts were meant to improve things. At least, that was Ellie’s argument. Tom had previously allowed her to keep a private account monitored by both parents. After the press attention, several thousand people had requested to follow her. Most were rejected. Then Ellie asked permission to share two carefully selected photographs on that private account, knowing full well that they would probably leak elsewhere if they involved you and Tom.
Much to your surprise, Tom agreed. He saw no real harm in the photographs themselves, and after looking them over, neither did you.
The first photograph was taken in a small grocery shop near the house a few days ago. You and Tom stood beside a shelf of breakfast cereal. Neither of you remembered what had been funny. Tom had one hand on the trolley. You were holding a packet of chocolate biscuits against his chest as though presenting evidence during a trial. He was laughing with his head turned toward you. You were looking up at him, mouth open mid-sentence, one hand curled around his sleeve.
It was unpolished. Domestic. Obvious in a way posed photographs never managed.
Ellie showed it to both of you before posting. “That one’s fine,” Tom said.
You looked at him. “You didn’t look at the caption.”
He took the phone back.
They’re embarrassing in public too.
Tom sighed. “Fine.”
Within an hour, it was everywhere. Fan accounts reposted it. Fashion pages identified your coat which was the one Maddy had given you recently. A newspaper described you as putting on a united front despite the fact you had been arguing about biscuits. Someone zoomed in on Tom’s hand on the trolley and decided it should have been on you for the relationship to be genuine. Someone else wrote a four-hundred-word thread about the way you looked at each other.
Tom read six replies and put his phone facedown. “Never again.”
Ellie posted the second photograph the following day. She did technically obtain permission. She asked Tom whether she could post a photograph of the hamster. Tom said yes while answering an email.
The picture showed him sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with Thomas balanced against his chest. The hamster had emptied a damp mouthful of softened food from his cheek pouch down the front of Tom’s shirt. Ellie insisted it had vomited. Tom repeatedly explained that hamsters were physically incapable of vomiting.
The distinction made no difference to the image. Tom looked appalled. The hamster looked innocent. You were visible at the edge of the frame, bent over the kitchen island laughing so hard you could barely remain upright.
The caption read:
Tom-on-Tom violence.
The post had been live for twelve minutes when Tom saw it.
“Ellie.”
She appeared at the top of the stairs. “Yes?”
He held up his phone. “Why would you post this?”
“You said I could post a hamster picture.”
“I have bodily fluid on me.”
“Hamsters can’t vomit, remember?”
“That is not the point.”
You had started laughing again. Tom turned toward you.
“You are making this worse.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You are visibly not trying.”
By the time he asked Ellie to remove it, the photograph had been screenshot thousands of times. It became a meme before dinner. Someone edited Thomas into a tiny suit. Someone else created an image of a fifty-foot hamster attacking central London while Tom stood beneath it looking disappointed.
Ellie thought that one was excellent. Tom threatened to revoke social media privileges. Then he looked at her laughing on the sofa, completely unbothered by the comments that had made school so uncomfortable, and did not.
********
More and more of your life migrated into Tom’s house during those ten days. It happened quietly. Your shampoo replaced the brand he used because he began using yours and claimed not to notice. Three pairs of shoes accumulated near the front door. Your scripts spread across his study. Your jewellery appeared in a small dish on his dresser.
A drawer became yours after Tom emptied it without mentioning why. Then two drawers. Then half the wardrobe rail. You ordered your preferred coffee and had it delivered to his address without thinking. Your post began arriving there.
The hamster cage stood tall and proud in the study. Your underwear was in Tom’s dresser. Your favourite mug had somehow become the one beside his every morning.
You still paid rent on your flat. Therefore, in your view, you had not moved in.
Maddy disagreed. She pointed this out while you sat on the floor of her studio with a glass of wine, watching one of her assistants pin the hem of a dress.
“You’ve moved in with him.”
You nearly inhaled the wine. “I have not.”
“You have.”
“I still have a flat.”
“Where did you sleep last night?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Tom’s.”
“The night before?”
“Tom’s.”
“The night before that?”
You took a drink. “I don’t see how this proves anything.”
Maddy looked at your feet. “Those are his socks.”
You looked down. They were navy. Too large. One had slipped halfway down your ankle.
“They’re comfortable.”
“You are partially living in his clothes.”
“Only the good ones.”
“You spend every day together.”
“We are both between projects.”
“Most people use that time to discover independent interests.”
“We have independent interests.”
Maddy waited. You thought.
“He likes crosswords.”
“And what do you like?”
“Interrupting him while he is doing crosswords.”
Maddy closed her eyes. “Disgusting.”
You smiled. “I just like spending time with him.”
“Clearly.”
“And I like cuddles.”
Her eyes opened. “Do not.”
“At night.”
“Please stop.”
“He’s very warm.”
“You are twenty-four years old and sound like an elderly woman describing her electric blanket.”
You leaned back against the cutting table. “I like him.”
Maddy studied you. The humour softened. “Yes. You really do.”
You looked into your wine. “Unfortunately.”
“And you’re happy there?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
It was true. You liked waking up with his arm around you. You liked Ellie appearing in the kitchen wearing one of his old T-shirts and complaining there was no acceptable cereal. You liked hearing Tom move around the house while you were reading. You liked the domestic evidence of him. Books by the bed. Cigarettes hidden badly in a kitchen drawer. Notes written in the margins of scripts. Half-finished cups of tea.
You liked that when you returned to your flat for clothes, it felt increasingly like somewhere you had once stayed rather than somewhere you lived.
**********
The first official public outing happened because Maddy’s client’s collection appeared in a fashion show. She told you attendance was mandatory. You told her she could not make social events mandatory. She threatened to stop gifting and lending you clothes. You agreed immediately.
Tom came because you asked. Then regretted it the moment Maddy arrived at the house carrying two garment bags and an expression of professional violence.
She dressed you first. The dress was dark green, fitted through the body, with a low back and sharp draping across one shoulder. Then Tom emerged from the bedroom wearing a black suit, charcoal shirt and narrow tie. He looked at the tie as though it represented an ideological betrayal.
“I object to ties on principle.”
You turned away from the mirror. Then stopped. Maddy had tailored the suit closely enough to make him look unfair. His hair was pushed back. The dark shirt made his eyes look lighter.
You stared.
Tom noticed. His expression changed. “What?”
You smiled. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“You look very handsome.”
His face softened despite himself. “That is not the point.”
Maddy appeared behind him and tightened the tie. Tom made a strangled sound.
“Do not touch it until after the official photographs,” she said.
“I feel threatened.”
“Good.”
He looked at you in the mirror. “Does she always behave like this?”
“This is her being restrained.”
The crowd outside the venue was larger than either of you expected. Your car had barely stopped before the flashes began.
Tom looked through the window.
“God, I hate this.”
You glanced at him.
“You do this all the time.”
“And I still hate it.” He looked toward the driver. “We could still leave. Go home.”
Maddy, sitting opposite, stared at him.
“Touch that door handle and I’ll kill you.”
Tom adjusted his cuffs. “She is frightening.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
The first few photographs were manageable. You stood beside Maddy. Then beside two models wearing her collection. Then someone called for Tom.
He stepped toward you. His hand settled at your waist. The noise intensified instantly. Your names were shouted from several directions. Look left. Look centre. Move closer. Tom, kiss her. Y/N, look at Tom.
Tom’s body went rigid beside you. His fingers tightened slightly against your waist. You slipped your hand beneath the back of his jacket and rested it against him.
“Breathe,” you murmured without moving your smile.
“I am breathing.”
“Not convincingly.”
He laughed.
A flash went off close to his face. Tom blinked. You moved closer and turned your head toward him as though you were saying something private.
The cameras erupted.
“They like that,” you whispered.
“I hate that.”
“Smile.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
You were better at it than he was. That surprised both of you. You knew where to look. How long to hold a position. How to let the noise wash over you rather than trying to respond to every voice.
Tom could perform grief in front of a hundred crew members and deliver a three-page monologue beneath artificial rain without missing a beat. Put him on a carpet beside the woman he loved and ask him to stand naturally, however, and he looked as though he had been arrested.
He pouted. He overthought every movement. He adjusted his hand at your waist, worried that it looked awkward, moved it, then immediately seemed to regret moving it. It was objectively funny and, depending on the angle, unfairly sexy.
He had been doing this for years and still managed to look slightly out of place on a red carpet, as if someone had dressed him beautifully and then failed to explain why he was there.
You turned toward him when the photographers started calling for a kiss.
“They want us to kiss.”
Tom’s expression tightened.
“Of course they do.”
You kissed him once, quick and soft.
The cameras erupted.
Someone shouted for another.
Tom looked appalled.
You smiled and kissed him again, slower this time, one hand resting against his chest while his fingers tightened instinctively at your waist.
When you pulled back, he was trying very hard not to pout again.
“There,” you said. “You survived.”
He glanced toward the wall of cameras.
“This is awful.”
“You’ve done red carpets for years.”
“And I’ve hated them for years.”
You laughed.
He leaned closer, keeping his smile fixed for the cameras.
“This and panels must be the worst parts of my career.”
“Panels?”
“Sitting beneath bright lights while strangers ask me to explain acting as if I understand how I do it.”
“You’re an actor.”
“Exactly. I pretend for a living. I should not be asked to clarify the process.”
Once the official photographs were finished, he pulled at the tie. Maddy saw.
“Don’t.”
“The photographs are done.”
“There may be more inside.”
Tom removed it completely. “Then they’ll photograph my neck.”
He handed the tie to you. You stared at it. “What am I meant to do with this?”
“You brought it. You carry it.”
You folded it and placed it inside your handbag. “That feels symbolic.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Of what?”
“Nothing.”
“You said it like it was something.”
“You’re free now.”
You kissed his cheek. Another photographer caught it.
Tom closed his eyes. “That will be online before we sit down.”
“Probably.”
The show made very little sense to either of you. A model came down the runway wearing a silver structure that seemed to be part coat, part sleeping bag and part emergency shelter.
Tom leaned closer. “Is that meant to happen?”
You kept your expression neutral. “I think so.”
“Can she see?”
“Probably not.”
“Is that part of the concept?”
“Neither of us understands this form of art.”
He glanced at your dress. “You seem supportive.”
“I like free clothes.”
That made him laugh loudly enough for the woman in front of you to turn around.
You sank slightly in your chair. “Behave.”
“I asked a reasonable question.”
A male model appeared wearing one trouser leg, a long coat and something resembling a net around his torso. Tom watched him pass.
“Has he lost the other trouser leg?”
You pressed your lips together. “It may represent absence.”
“It represents a cold ankle.”
Maddy met you backstage afterward. Tom had the tie nowhere on his body. She looked at him. Then at your handbag.
“You let him take it off.”
“He invoked freedom.”
“He looked good in it.”
Tom placed one arm around your waist. “I continue to look good.”
Maddy stared. “She’s made you arrogant.”
“I was already arrogant.”
******
Dinner with Arthur and Leo happened two nights later. It was supposed to be private. The restaurant had a rear entrance. Someone still photographed the four of you arriving.
Arthur blamed Tom. “Can’t take him anywhere.”
Tom held the door open for you. “I was invited.”
“Under false pretences.”
“What were the false pretences?”
“That we’d eat in peace.”
Inside, the evening was easy. Wine. Good food. Leo making increasingly offensive observations about everyone’s relationships. Arthur asking Tom whether he had recovered from the fashion show. Tom said he was still thinking about the missing trouser leg.
The conversation drifted toward family. Arthur mentioned one of your parents. Tom mentioned his brother. Leo looked between you both.
“This is going to become irritating.”
You frowned. “What is?”
“Both of you having brothers called Arthur.”
Your Arthur lifted his wine glass. “I was here first.”
Tom said, “I am fairly sure my brother is older than you.”
“Not the point.”
Leo leaned back. “It will become especially annoying when you two get married.”
You almost dropped your fork. Tom inhaled wine and began coughing.
Arthur grinned. “Marriage already?”
You pointed at Leo. “He started it.”
Leo looked innocent. “I identified a future administrative problem.”
“There will be no future administrative problem.”
Arthur looked at you. “You live together.”
“We do not live together.”
Tom became deeply interested in cutting his food. Leo turned toward him.
“Where did she wake up this morning?”
Tom glanced at you. “My house.”
“And yesterday?”
“My house.”
“Where are most of her clothes?”
You answered. “That depends on how you define most.”
Arthur laughed. “You live together.”
“I have a flat.”
Tom nodded. “She does have a flat.”
Leo looked at him. “When was the last time you went there?”
Tom paused. You looked at him.
“Actually, when was the last time you went there?”
He considered it. “Two weeks ago?”
All four of you went quiet. Arthur pointed his fork. “That did not help.”
“It still exists,” you insisted.
“So does Luxembourg,” Leo said. “You don’t live there either.”
Tom laughed into his glass. You kicked him beneath the table.
*******
A few days later, you met a larger group of Tom’s friends at a pub. Most of them had known him for years. Some from school. Some through theatre. Some through films.
They absorbed the news about his bisexuality so quickly that Tom found it almost insulting. One man hugged him and said he was sorry the photographs had been published, then immediately asked whether Tom still owed him forty pounds from 2018. A woman named Claire told you she had always thought Tom was too complicated to be entirely heterosexual. Tom objected to the logic.
Rob spent most of the night telling anyone who would listen that Tom had confirmed he had never fancied him. By the second round, the conversation had shifted from scandal to whether you and Tom were disturbingly alike.
“We are not,” Tom said.
Sam pointed at both of you. “You both hate parties but attend every party you’re invited to.”
“Professional obligation,” you said.
Tom nodded. “Exactly.”
Everyone stared. Claire smiled. “There.”
“That proves nothing,” Tom said.
Rob leaned forward. “You both interrupt stories to correct irrelevant details.”
Tom frowned. “The details aren’t irrelevant.”
You nodded. “They change the context.”
The entire table erupted. You looked at Tom. He looked at you.
“They’re being unreasonable,” you said.
“Completely.”
Sam raised his glass. “Identical.”
***********
Your sex life returned to normal during those ten days. Thank God. Because you had now gone three days without sex twice, and that was excessive.
The first time had been during your period. You had initially refused because you felt uncomfortable and irritable and did not want to make a mess of Tom’s very expensive sheets. Tom had accepted this. He had not argued. He had not pressured you. He had simply climbed into bed beside you, kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
You had ignored him. He had begun reading. Ten minutes later, you moved closer. He turned a page. You put your head against his shoulder. He continued reading. Your hand moved beneath his shirt.
He lowered the book. “I thought you didn’t want to.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You were very firm.”
“Do you want me to change it back?”
The book landed on the floor. A towel solved the practical concern.
The second interruption happened after the article, while Ellie was staying at the house. Even once she had gone to sleep, everything felt too raw. Too emotionally crowded. Too inappropriate with her downstairs.
So you did not. For three days.
Tom discovered your limit was approximately forty-eight hours. After that, you became restless. You climbed into his lap while he was trying to answer emails. You kissed his neck while he made coffee. You stood too close to him in the kitchen.
One afternoon, he was sitting on the sofa reading when you slid beneath his arm and pressed your mouth against the skin below his ear. He continued reading for nearly thirty seconds.
Then he said, “You’re doing it again.”
You kissed the same spot. “Doing what?”
“Pretending this is casual.”
Your hand moved beneath his jumper. “It could be.”
He closed the book.
It was not.
Once Ellie returned to Ruth’s and the press stopped occupying every hour of the day, the two of you found your rhythm again. Lazy mornings, still half asleep beneath the blankets. His mouth warm against your shoulder. Your leg hooked over his while rain touched the bedroom windows.
Afternoons when one of you passed the other too closely in the kitchen and whatever task had been planned quietly ceased to matter. Once against the counter while the kettle boiled. Once in the study after you sat on the edge of his desk and distracted him from a script. Once halfway up the stairs because neither of you made it to the bedroom.
Evenings were different. Slower sometimes. Rougher other times. Less laughter. More trust.
Tom knew when to be gentle without making you feel fragile. He knew when you did not want gentle at all. You liked him sleep-soft and affectionate in the morning. You liked him distracted and eager during the day. At night, you liked how quickly tenderness could turn into something darker when the bedroom door closed.
Sex with Tom was just perfect. Not because every moment was elegant. It was not. There were elbows. Bad timing. Laughter when someone knocked something over. The occasional argument about whose fault it was that the bedside water had spilled.
It was perfect because none of it felt like performance. Even when it was filthy. Even when it was intense. It still felt like him. Like you. Like something private that belonged completely to both of you.
Maddy remained disgusted. She came to the house one afternoon and found you stretched across Tom’s lap while he worked on a crossword. His free hand rested beneath your shirt against your back.
“You are both between projects,” she said. “Do you realise how much time you spend together?”
Tom looked up. “Not that much.”
Maddy stared. You kissed his jaw. “We’ve been together all day.”
“Traitor,” Tom said.
“And yesterday,” Maddy added.
“Also true.”
“And the day before.”
Maddy looked at you. “Disgusting.”
*******
Then, one evening, something random happened. Tom was trying to buy concert tickets. Sam and Rob wanted to see a band playing three nights in London later that year. Tickets went on sale at six.
At six-oh-one, the website placed Tom in a virtual queue. At six-oh-three, the page crashed. At six-oh-five, he began refreshing it with increasing aggression.
You were upstairs in the shower. The bathroom door was open because the house was warm and because the two of you had stopped respecting ordinary privacy somewhere around the time your underwear acquired a drawer.
“It keeps crashing,” Tom called from downstairs.
You rinsed shampoo from your hair. “Try another browser.”
“I have.”
“Clear the cookies.”
“I did.”
A pause. “Now it thinks I’m a bot.”
You laughed beneath the water. “Probably because you’re refreshing every two seconds like a maniac.”
“I’m not refreshing every two seconds.”
You heard rapid clicking from downstairs. “You are literally doing it now.”
“The tickets are selling.”
“Use my laptop.”
“Where is it?”
“Coffee table.”
The clicking stopped. You continued washing your hair.
Downstairs, Tom left his own computer on the dining table and crossed into the living room. Your laptop sat half beneath a magazine, exactly where you had abandoned it that afternoon.
He opened it.
The screen woke immediately.
You had not closed the browser. You had not closed any of the tabs.
The previous evening, while Tom had been at the pub with Sam and Rob, you had become curious. It was not as though you did not understand what two men did together. You were not entirely naïve. In fact you knew very well, but knowing something in theory and visualising Tom with another man were different things.
Since the photographs of him and Frank had emerged, the thought had existed at the edge of your mind. Not jealousy. Not exactly. Curiosity. And something else.
Tom kissing Frank. Tom touching him. Frank touching Tom. The fact that Tom had wanted men before you. Had slept with them. Had enjoyed it.
You had tried to ignore the curiosity. Then Tom went out. You drank half a glass of wine. You opened your laptop. One search became another. Then another.
You discovered very quickly that search engines required alarmingly little encouragement.
You had watched longer than intended. Long enough to become embarrassed by yourself. Long enough to become very turned on.
Then Tom had texted that he was coming home. You closed the laptop without closing anything else and forgot about it completely.
Until now.
Downstairs, Tom lifted the screen. The browser opened on a paused video. Two naked men occupied most of the frame. There was no possible innocent interpretation. No advertisement to blame. No accidental pop-up.
One man was on his knees. The other behind him.
Tom stared.
The concert tickets ceased to matter.
Upstairs, you continued rinsing your hair. Downstairs, there was absolute silence.
Then:
“Y/N?”
Something in his voice made your stomach drop.
You turned off the water. “What?”
A pause. Long enough for the truth to reach you.
Your laptop. The browser. The tabs.
Oh.
No.
“Your tabs were still open.”
You closed your eyes. “Right.”
“And there is…”
He stopped.
You grabbed a towel and wrapped it around yourself. Water ran from your hair down your shoulders as you stepped into the hallway.
“Tom—”
“There are several…”
Another pause.
“Several what?” you called, because apparently humiliation made you stupid.
“You know what.”
You descended the stairs slowly. Tom was standing beside the coffee table. One hand remained on the laptop screen. His face had gone through surprise, confusion and disbelief and had now arrived somewhere dangerously neutral.
Behind him, the frozen scene remained aggressively visible.
You stopped on the bottom step. Your towel was barely secure. Water dripped onto the floor.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader
By five o’clock, the house had become too clean. Not actually clean. There were still takeaway containers on the coffee table, one abandoned glass, your jumper over the back of the sofa, Tom’s cigarettes visible and then hidden and then visible again because he kept moving them without realising. But emotionally, the house had that over-prepared quality of a room waiting for bad news.
Tom had changed his shirt.
Then changed it back.
Then stood in the bedroom doorway looking mildly horrified by himself.
“Is this ridiculous?”
You looked up from the bed.
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“Probably.”
He gave you a look.
You softened.
“You look like you.”
That seemed to both help and hurt.
He looked down at himself. Dark jumper. Jeans. Bare feet. Hair still doing whatever his hair did when he had run both hands through it too many times and then tried to pretend he had not.
“Should I put shoes on?”
“Why?”
His mouth twitched.
Barely.
“I don’t know.”
“Put socks on, maybe.”
He looked down again, as if genuinely considering this as a parenting strategy.
You got up before he could spiral into footwear as a metaphor for fatherhood and crossed to him.
“Tom.”
His eyes lifted.
They were still red around the edges.
“She wants to see you.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“That matters.”
“I know.”
But knowing and feeling were different things.
You could see that.
The doorbell rang at four minutes past five.
Tom went still. Not frozen. Worse. Contained. Every part of him tightened around the sound.
You touched his arm.
“Breathe.”
He did. Badly. Then again. Better.
When he walked to the door this time, you followed but stopped before the hallway opened fully, giving him the first sight of her alone.
The door opened.
Ruth stood there with Ellie beside her.
Ellie had her school bag over one shoulder, blazer crooked, tie loose, hair pulled back badly enough that you knew she had done it herself after lunch and not cared what it looked like. Her face was pale, but not devastated. Her eyes were sharp and embarrassed and tired in the very particular way teenage girls became tired when adults had made life weird and everyone at school had noticed.
She looked at Tom.
Tom looked at her.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then Ellie said, “Hi.”
Tom’s face broke.
Not completely.
But enough.
“Hi, darling.”
Ruth’s hand hovered for half a second at Ellie’s shoulder, then dropped.
“I’ll be outside.”
Ellie glanced at her.
“You don’t have to sit in the car like a stalker. Go home. I will probably stay here for the night.”
Ruth blinked.
Tom made a tiny sound.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Then Ruth’s face tightened, but she did not argue.
Progress, apparently, remained ugly.
“Okay. I will go home. Call me if you need me.”
Ellie rolled her eyes, but softly.
“I know.”
Ruth looked past Tom then and saw you standing back from the hall.
You kept still.
Ellie followed her mother’s gaze.
Her face changed, but not badly.
Just aware.
“Hi.”
You gave her a small smile.
“Hi.”
Ruth’s mouth tightened at the exchange, but she stepped back.
“Call me if she wants to leave.”
Tom’s jaw moved.
Ellie said, “Mum.”
That was all.
Just one word.
But it carried enough sixteen-year-old mortification to push Ruth back a step.
Ruth exhaled.
“Fine..”
Then she left.
The door closed. Not slammed. Not carefully either. Just closed.
For a second, the three of you stood in the hallway like actors who had forgotten where the scene was meant to begin.
Then Ellie looked at Tom’s feet.
“How do you not have cold feet? And I mean literally, not metaphorically.”
Tom looked down at his bare feet.
You closed your eyes briefly.
“I considered socks.”
Ellie stared at him.
Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. Tiny. But real.
“Okay, I guess that’s something.”
Tom laughed once. It came out broken.
Ellie’s face shifted immediately.
“Oh my God, don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You look like you’re about to do that dad thing where you try not to cry and then it’s worse.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Right. Excellent. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The absurdity helped.
Only a little.
Enough to get them into the living room.
You stayed near the doorway, unsure whether to remain or disappear. Ellie noticed immediately because Ellie, like Tom, noticed more than people thought.
She looked at you.
“Are you staying?”
You glanced at Tom.
Then back at her.
“Only if you want me to.”
Ellie shifted her bag higher on her shoulder.
“I don’t mind.”
It was not quite an invitation.
It was not a rejection either.
You nodded.
“I’ll be in the kitchen. You can call me in or kick me out whenever.”
Ellie looked briefly relieved by the option.
“Okay.”
Tom looked at you as you passed him.
You brushed your fingers lightly against his hand.
A reminder.
You’re her dad.
Then you left them alone.
Not fully.
The kitchen was close enough that you could hear shape, not words, unless voices lifted. You busied yourself with pointless tasks. Kettle. Cups. A plate moved from one counter to another. Something to do with your hands while father and daughter stepped into a conversation that should have happened years before but had somehow arrived via tabloids instead.
For a while, their voices stayed low.
Then Ellie’s rose.
Not angry.
Blunt.
“So are you gay?”
The kettle clicked off.
You went still.
Tom’s answer came after a beat.
Quiet, clear.
“No.”
A pause.
“But you aren’t straight?”
Another pause.
A little softer.
“No.”
Ellie exhaled loudly.
“Right. Okay. So you are bisexual?”
“Yes.”
The word came differently this time.
Not to Ruth.
Not as a refusal.
To Ellie.
A fact.
A gift, maybe, though it hurt to give.
Ellie was quiet for several seconds.
Then she said, “Okay.”
Tom’s voice was careful.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, not okay, obviously, because everyone at school is being weird and Olivia sent me the article during maths like she was delivering state secrets, and someone asked if Y/N was your beard, which I had to Google and then immediately regretted Googling.”
Tom made a pained sound.
“I’m sorry.”
“Also someone asked if you cheated on her with that man.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know. That statement Y/N gave said no. Because I read that too.”
A pause.
Then Ellie added, quieter, “it also said that Y/N knew, but did she really or was that made up?”
Tom’s voice softened.
“She knew.”
“Before?”
“Before.”
“And she was okay with it?”
The silence was brief but heavy.
“Yes.”
Ellie gave another exhale.
“Good.”
Your chest tightened.
Then, after a moment, Ellie said, “I wish I would have known too.”
Tom said nothing.
Ellie’s voice became smaller, which somehow made it sharper.
“Not because it’s bad. I just wish I’d known before everyone else was asking stupid questions. Because then I could have been like, yes, obviously, shut up. But instead I was just standing there thinking, wait, do I know my dad? Which was horrible. And then I felt bad for thinking that, because you’re still you, obviously, but also I didn’t know.”
Tom’s voice was rough.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because mum knew.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“And Y/N knew.”
A tiny beat.
“Yes.”
“And I didn’t.”
There it was.
Not disgust. Not rejection. Not even confusion in the way Ruth had feared.
Hurt.
The ordinary hurt of being left out of something important by someone you loved.
Tom’s answer came slowly.
“You’re right.”
Ellie went quiet.
You could hear the sofa shift.
Tom continued.
“I should have told you. Not like this. Not because I owed the world anything, but because I owe you the truth about who I am before anyone else gets to use it against you.”
Ellie sniffed once.
“That sounds like something Y/N made you practise.”
Tom laughed then.
Wet and startled.
“No. But she did tell me off.”
“Good.”
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
Tom said, “It was deserved.”
“Probably.”
Another silence.
Then Ellie said, “Does it mean you didn’t love mum?”
The question landed so heavily that even from the kitchen, you felt it.
Tom took longer to answer that.
When he did, his voice had changed.
Lower.
Sad.
“No. It doesn’t mean that.”
“Because if you liked men too, did you always know? Like when you were with mum?”
“Yes.”
Ellie was quiet.
Tom continued, careful with every word.
“But loving your mum was still real.”
Tom said it slowly, like he was placing each word down where Ellie could see it.
“Being bisexual does not mean I loved her less. It does not mean I was pretending. It does not mean you came from something false. And it doesn't mean she wasn’t enough, just like it doesn’t mean Y/N isn’t enough.”
Ellie went very still after that.
You could not see her from the kitchen, but you could picture it anyway. The way she would be sitting with her school bag still half attached to her shoulder because she had forgotten to put it down. The way she would be staring at him too directly, because looking away would make the question too big.
“But you knew then?”
Tom’s answer was quiet.
“Yes.”
“And mum knew?”
A pause.
“Eventually, yes.”
“And she wasn’t okay with it.”
It was not really a question.
Tom exhaled.
“No.”
Ellie was silent for a moment.
Then, with the terrible precision of sixteen, she said, “Is that why you broke up?”
Tom did not answer quickly.
You stopped pretending to clean the same mug.
In the living room, the sofa shifted again.
“It was part of why things became difficult,” Tom said. “But your mum and I broke up for many reasons. Adult reasons. Complicated reasons. None of them were your fault, and none of them mean there was never love.”
Ellie made a small sound.
Not quite agreement.
Not quite rejection.
“That sounds like a post separation pamphlet.”
Tom let out a laugh.
Small.
Wounded.
“Yes. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was a decent pamphlet.”
Ellie went quiet for a moment.
Then, with less hesitation than most adults had managed all day, she asked, “So when did you know you liked men?”
Tom blinked.
It was not the question itself.
It was the simplicity of it.
No accusation. No disgust. No careful adult phrasing built to avoid the word and therefore make the word enormous.
Just Ellie, sitting on his sofa with her tie loose and her school bag still on the floor, asking him when he had known.
He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck.
“I think I knew something when I was at school.”
Ellie’s face changed immediately.
“Please don’t say ‘when I was your age’ in that meaningful dad voice.”
Despite everything, Tom laughed.
A real laugh.
Small, startled, but real.
“All right. I won’t.”
“Good. Because that makes it sound like a lesson.”
“It isn’t meant to be.”
“Everything adults say eventually becomes a lesson. It’s exhausting.”
You, still half in the kitchen, pressed your lips together.
Tom glanced in your direction, as if he knew you were trying not to laugh.
Then he looked back at Ellie.
“I knew quite young. I didn’t have good words for it then. Or good examples. And I was very good at convincing myself that if I didn’t say things out loud, they didn’t have to be fully real.”
Ellie studied him.
“That sounds unhealthy.”
Tom looked at her.
Then, softly, “Yes.”
Her face changed a little at that.
Not softened exactly.
But she heard him.
She was quiet for a second, then picked at a loose thread on the blanket beside her.
“So what am I meant to tell people at school?”
Tom’s mouth tightened.
“Whatever you want.”
Ellie looked up.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is.”
“No, it’s an adult answer that sounds nice but gives me no actual script.”
Tom took that in.
Nodded once.
“Fair.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as if he had to physically hold himself in place.
“You can tell them it is none of their business.”
Ellie made a face.
“Obviously.”
“You can tell them the article was invasive and wrong.”
“Also obvious.”
“You can tell them I’m bisexual, if you want to say that. But you don’t have to. You do not owe anyone an explanation of me.”
Ellie looked at him carefully.
“But I can say it?”
Tom’s throat moved.
“Yes.”
“You won’t be weird if I say it?”
That question hit him harder than she meant it to.
You saw it, even from the doorway.
The way he held very still.
The way his eyes went bright.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “I won’t be weird.”
Ellie nodded.
“Okay.”
Then, after a beat, “Can I also say, ‘and?’”
Tom blinked.
“And?”
“Yeah. Like, ‘My dad is bisexual, and?’”
Something in his face broke and mended at the same time.
“Yes.”
Ellie seemed satisfied with that.
Then her expression sharpened again, as if she had remembered the next item on a mental list.
“Rubi said your relationship with Y/N is probably fake.”
Tom stared at her.
You froze in the kitchen.
Ellie continued, apparently not done delivering horrors from Year Eleven.
“Because Y/N likes women too, apparently, and if you like men then obviously both of you are just pretending or something. I told her she was stupid.”
Tom closed his eyes.
“Thank you.”
“She is stupid.”
“Still. Thank you.”
Ellie glanced toward the kitchen.
You did not know whether to come in or vanish into the cupboard.
She solved it for you.
“Y/N?”
You stepped into the doorway.
“Yes?”
Ellie looked at you with the blunt, assessing stare of a girl who had survived a day of gossip and now wanted to test the adults with directness.
“You like women too?”
Tom’s head turned toward you.
Not alarmed.
Careful.
You nodded.
“Yes.”
Ellie absorbed that with far less drama than any of the adults had brought into the afternoon.
“Okay. But you are still really into my dad, right?”
A pause.
“Unfortunately, yes,” you said.
Ellie huffed.
Then, “So Rubi is stupid.”
You smiled.
“Rubi appears to be working with limited information.”
Ellie stared at you.
“That is a very polite way to say stupid.”
“I’m trying to be mature.”
“Why start now?”
Tom made a small strangled sound.
You looked at him.
He was staring at Ellie like she had personally invented oxygen.
Ellie turned back to him.
“Maybe Y/N should put something on Instagram of you two snogging or something.”
Tom’s eyes widened.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because that is a terrible idea.”
“It would shut people up.”
You crossed your arms.
“For approximately four minutes. Then they would analyse the snog.”
Ellie considered that.
“True.”
Tom looked horrified.
“No one would be analysing a snog.”
Ellie gave him a pitying look.
“Dad.”
You said, “They would analyse hand placement.”
Ellie nodded seriously.
“Angles.”
You added, “Chemistry.”
“Tongue.”
Tom stood up abruptly.
“Right. That is enough.”
Ellie smiled.
Not tiny this time.
Still tired.
Still bruised around the edges.
But real.
“See? You’re fine.”
Tom looked at her.
The humour faded gently.
“Am I?”
Ellie’s smile wobbled.
“No. But you’re still you.”
That undid him more than any grand speech could have.
His face changed.
Ellie saw it immediately and pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“That counts as doing it.”
You came fully into the room then, because if you stayed in the doorway any longer, you were going to become part of the architecture.
Ellie shifted slightly, not away from Tom, just making space in the room for you to exist.
That mattered.
You sat in the armchair again.
Not beside Tom.
Not forcing intimacy into a conversation that belonged first to father and daughter.
Ellie looked between you both.
“So you’re not fake.”
Tom looked at you.
You looked at him.
The day had been so awful that the question almost became funny.
Almost.
You answered first.
“No.”
Tom said, quieter, “No.”
Ellie nodded.
“Good, because I like you.”
Then she looked at you.
“And you do look at him weirdly, so that tracks.”
You blinked.
“Weirdly?”
“Like you like him too much in a disgusting kind of way.”
Tom looked down, but not before you saw the colour rise in his face.
After everything, after the article and Ruth and your parents and the entire world intruding into rooms where they had no right to stand, Tom blushed because his daughter said you looked at him like you loved him.
You wanted to kiss him.
You did not.
You behaved like an adult, which was apparently possible under extreme circumstances.
“I do like him too much,” you said.
Ellie looked satisfied.
“Good.”
Tom’s voice was almost inaudible.
“Good?”
Ellie shrugged.
“Yeah. If everyone is going to be weird about you, someone should be obsessed with you in a normal way.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Tom looked at her for one long second, then laughed so quietly it nearly broke.
“I’m not sure obsession is normal.”
“Y/N makes it look tasteful.”
“Thank you,” you said.
“That wasn’t entirely a compliment.”
“I’ll take it.”
For the first time since she had arrived, Ellie leaned back into the sofa.
Not fully relaxed.
Not healed.
But no longer sitting like she might need to flee at any second.
Tom noticed.
So did you.
The shift was small, but in a day made entirely of damage, small things felt enormous.
Ellie looked at the cold takeaway containers on the coffee table.
“Is there food?”
Tom blinked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I’m starving. Coming out as someone’s daughter is exhausting.”
Tom stared at her.
Then he laughed.
So did you.
And Ellie, after a second, laughed too.
Not because any of it was funny.
Because some things were either laughed through or impossible to survive.
Dinner became reheated Thai, toast, half a packet of biscuits, and Ellie eating noodles directly from the container while informing Tom that if anyone asked tomorrow, she was going to say, “Yes, my dad is bisexual, and you are annoying, let’s all move on.”
Tom looked deeply alarmed while you handed him a fork and smiled.
“Seems reasonable,” you added.
Tom looked at you with something soft and exhausted and grateful.
The evening unfolded badly and beautifully from there.
Ruth texted twice.
Ellie answered once.
I’m fine. Staying here tonight. Don’t be weird.
Tom read it over her shoulder and winced.
“Maybe don’t say that to your mother.”
Ellie typed another message.
Sorry. I mean don’t worry.
She showed it to him.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
Then she sent both.
Tom looked physically pained.
“You sent the first one too.”
“Transparency.”
You had to leave the room for water because otherwise you were going to laugh in a way that made the entire day feel even more unhinged than it already did.
By ten, Ellie had fallen asleep on the sofa under one of Tom’s blankets, the television still playing something she had insisted was good and neither of you understood.
Tom stood in the doorway looking at her.
You stood beside him.
Ellie slept like a teenager after a crisis: mouth slightly open, one arm flung dramatically above her head, phone still loosely in her hand.
“She needs to go to bed,” Tom whispered.
“She’ll wake up if you move her.”
“She’ll get a bad neck.”
“She is sixteen. She could sleep folded inside a suitcase and recover in nine minutes.”
He looked at you.
“That is disturbingly specific.”
“Teenagers are rubber.”
He smiled.
A real one this time.
Small, but there.
You made a bed for her on the sofa anyway. Extra blanket. Water on the table. Phone plugged in. Tom hovered uselessly until Ellie opened one eye and muttered, “Stop being weird.”
He froze.
“Sorry.”
“Love you.”
His face changed.
Completely.
“I love you too.”
She was asleep again before he finished saying it.
That was what finally undid him.
Not in the living room.
Not where she could wake and see it.
He made it upstairs.
He made it to the bedroom.
He made it as far as sitting on the edge of the bed before his shoulders folded and he put both hands over his face.
You closed the door softly behind you.
For once, you did not speak immediately.
You crossed the room, knelt in front of him, and rested your hands on his wrists.
He did not lower his hands.
His voice came from behind them, ruined.
“She is fine. See.”
“Yes.”
“Like normal.”
“Yes.”
His breath shook.
“I thought she might not be okay with this.”
Your chest hurt.
You pulled his hands gently away from his face.
His eyes were wet now.
No performance.
No holding it together.
Just Tom, exhausted and raw and terrified and loved anyway.
You rose onto your knees and wrapped your arms around him.
He came into you immediately.
Not elegantly.
Not like a film.
He folded around you, face pressed to your shoulder, arms tight at your back, and you held him as hard as you could.
“I love you,” you whispered.
His breath caught.
You said it again, into his hair.
“I love you.”
His arms tightened.
“I love you too.”
The words were muffled against your shoulder.
You turned your face into his hair and closed your eyes.
For a while, that was all there was.
No article.
No Ruth.
No Frank.
No parents.
No production.
Only the shape of him in your arms and the knowledge that neither of you could undo the day, but you had somehow survived enough of it to reach the bed, the dark, the quiet.
Eventually, he pulled back.
His face was blotched.
His eyes were red.
He looked embarrassed by both facts.
You cupped his jaw.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
He gave the smallest laugh.
Then his gaze lowered.
“I’m sorry.”
You tilted your head.
“For what?”
“All of it.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“No. You are not apologising for existing in a shitty scandal that should never have become one.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then said quietly, “You were right earlier.”
You knew which part he meant.
Ruth.
The hallway.
The words you had thrown because Ellie deserved better than silence and shame dressed up as caution.
Your stomach twisted.
“I was harsh.”
“You were right.”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
His brow creased.
“You were defending me.”
“I was also telling you off.”
“I deserved a bit of it.”
You smiled sadly.
“A bit.”
His mouth twitched.
Then the humour disappeared.
“I should have told Ellie years ago.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
No flinch this time.
“I know.”
You stroked your thumb along his cheek.
“And Ruth should never have made you feel like this was something disgusting.”
His eyes lowered.
“She didn’t use that word.”
“She didn’t have to.”
That landed.
He looked away.
You shifted onto the bed beside him, pulling him with you until you were both under the covers, still mostly dressed, still too wired to sleep, but finally horizontal. He lay on his side facing you. You tucked one leg between his and brought him close, your hand sliding to the back of his neck.
He let you hold him.
That was new too, in a way.
Not the touching.
The letting.
The full weight of him trusting you not to make him smaller for needing it.
“It’s horrible,” you said softly.
His eyes flicked to yours.
“What is?”
“That she could never accept it. Not really. Not enough to stop making you carry her shame.”
He swallowed.
“She tried, sometimes.”
“Maybe.”
You did not want to take every complexity away from him.
You also would not pretend.
“But today she made it very clear that the thing she still finds embarrassing is part of you. And that is horrible.”
He closed his eyes.
“I don’t want Ellie to feel caught between us.”
“She won’t if the two of you stop handing her the rope.”
His eyes opened.
A tiny, miserable smile touched his mouth.
“You sound like a therapist.”
“An expensive one.”
“Clearly.”
You kissed his forehead.
Then his nose.
Then the corner of his mouth.
He made a small sound at the last one and closed his eyes again.
“Are you sure?”
You frowned.
“About what?”
He looked almost ashamed to ask.
“That you’re all right with it.”
Your heart broke a little.
Not because the question surprised you.
Because you understood how many years had taught him to expect the answer to curdle later.
“Tom.”
“I know you said you are. I just—”
He stopped.
His fingers moved at your waist.
Restless.
Afraid.
“It is different when everyone knows.”
You softened.
“Is it?”
He looked at you.
“Isn’t it?”
You moved closer until your forehead touched his.
“No.”
His breath caught.
“Not for me.”
You kissed him once.
Slowly.
Gently.
Then pulled back just enough to speak.
“I am angry that someone hurt you. I am angry that Ellie got blindsided. I am angry that Ruth made it worse. I am angry my parents are probably being weird in some other postcode right now because they need something to pick on.”
That almost got a laugh out of him.
Almost.
You brushed your thumb over his lower lip.
“But you being bisexual? No. That is not the problem.”
He watched you, still not fully believing.
Not because he thought you were lying.
Because belief took repetition when shame had been rehearsed for years.
So you gave him repetition.
“I love you.”
His eyes softened.
“I love you too.”
“And honestly?”
He looked wary.
“What?”
You let your mouth curve slightly.
“Like I said before, I think it’s kind of sexy.”
He blinked.
Once.
Then again.
“Sorry?”
“You heard me.”
For the first time all evening, something other than devastation crossed his face.
Embarrassment.
Real, helpless embarrassment.
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“I am in the middle of an emotional crisis.”
“I know. I’m being supportive.”
“That is your version of support?”
“Apparently.”
He stared at you.
Then, despite everything, he laughed.
Not a big laugh.
Not enough to fix anything.
But enough to bring colour to his face.
You loved that colour.
You loved being the one who had put it there.
“The photo was awful because it was stolen,” you said, softer now. “But the kissing itself?”
He covered his eyes with one hand.
“Please don’t.”
“Two attractive men…”
“Oh my God.”
“Kissing…”
He made a sound somewhere between horror and laughter.
“I cannot believe this is happening to me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I did not thank you.”
“You will.”
He lowered his hand and looked at you, and there it was again, fragile but real.
Relief.
Not because the day had become funny.
It had not.
But because you had taken the thing everyone else had treated like a wound and, very gently, very absurdly, refused to flinch from it.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“You really don’t mind?”
You kissed him before answering.
Not to silence him.
To answer with something older than words.
When you pulled back, his eyes were closed.
“No,” you whispered. “I don’t mind.”
His hand came up to your face, tentative at first, then steadier. His thumb brushed your cheek before you tucked yourself closer against him, your cheek against his chest now, listening to the uneven beat of his heart slowly settle under your ear.
His arms came around you.
Tight.
Then tighter.
As if he had spent the day being pulled apart by every person who loved him badly and was only now remembering what it felt like to be held by someone who did not want to split him into acceptable pieces.
In the living room downstairs, Ellie slept under his blanket.
In the world outside, the article kept spreading.
But in the dark, in his bed, with your body curled around his and his breath warming your hair, Tom finally went quiet.
Not because it was over.
Because, for one small stretch of night, he believed you.
He was loved.
All of him.
And you stayed awake long after his breathing evened out, one hand resting over his heart, as if you could keep the truth there by touch alone.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader
Your father received the article in a production email with the subject line:
URGENT: press escalation.
That was how the private lives of daughters arrived to men like him. Threaded. Forwarded. Flagged. Summarised.
He opened it in his office, already irritated, already braced for another invasive photograph of you leaving Tom’s house, another timeline piece, another anonymous source claiming moral concern while cashing a cheque. Or something equally stupid. Something he could be angry at in the abstract while still pretending he was only thinking like a producer.
Then he saw Frank.
The irritation became something else. Not shock. Not exactly. A tightening. A father’s instinct forced through a producer’s vocabulary.
He read the headline. Then the first paragraph. Then the phrase male photographer.
He hated that phrase immediately. Not because it was inaccurate. Because it had been placed there like bait.
He opened the photograph, then regretted it at once. Tom and Frank. Kissing. A real kiss. He closed the window.
Then reopened the article because not looking did not make it less real. Your mother came in without knocking, already holding her own phone. That meant someone had sent it to her too.
Her face was pale in a way that made Edward’s irritation sharpen into dread.
“Is it true?”
He looked at her.
“Which part?”
“Do not be clever.”
“I’m not.”
She held up the phone slightly, not looking at the image now.
“Tom. With that man.”
Edward’s jaw tightened.
“I am reading the same article, love.”
She lowered herself into the chair opposite his desk.
Not sat.
Lowered, as if her knees had briefly become unreliable.
“Do you think she knew?”
There it was. The question beneath all the others. Not is Tom bisexual? Not what does this mean for the film? Not how bad is the press? Did she know? Was your daughter finding out alongside strangers? Had she been made foolish publicly by a man Edward already thought too old, too complicated, too capable of causing damage even when he did not mean to?
He picked up his phone and called you. No answer. He called again. No answer.
Your mother watched him, lips pressed together.
“She’s with him.”
“Probably.”
“Of course she is.”
Edward looked up.
“Do not start.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I have not started anything.”
“You have a tone.”
“Yes, Edward, I have a tone. Our daughter is in another public scandal with a forty-year-old man who apparently also—”
She stopped.
Edward’s gaze hardened.
“Apparently also what?”
She looked away.
Then her mouth tightened and she continued.
“Apparently also has relationships with men and possibly at the same time as he started seeing her.”
Edward leaned back.
Not far.
Just enough that the chair creaked beneath him.
“We don’t know that.”
“It says it right there, Edward. In the article.”
“It says weeks before the relationship became public. That is not the same thing.”
Your mother stared at the photograph again, then looked away quickly, as if even looking at it too long made her part of something she did not want to understand.
Tom’s hand at Frank’s jaw. Frank leaning into him. A kiss. Not a drunken shove in an alley. Not something ambiguous outside a club. Not one of those photographs that could be argued away with lighting and timing and a lazy caption. It looked intimate. That was what made her uneasy. If it had looked cheap, perhaps she could have dismissed it as a mistake. A lapse. A reckless actor being reckless. Something sordid enough to judge cleanly. But it did not look sordid. It looked tender. And tenderness was harder to file away.
“Even if there is no overlap, Edward, I wonder if she knew that he is bisexual?”
Edward looked at her.
The word sat oddly in the room. Not because it was unfamiliar. Because of the way she said it. Carefully.
Like something she did not want to touch with her bare hands.
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
“Why would I?”
“You are the producer of the movie they were both working on.”
“Yes, but I am not producing his sexuality.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Don’t be crude.”
“Then don’t be ridiculous.”
She stood again almost immediately, unable to stay seated now that the shock had found somewhere to go. She paced once to the window, then back.
“It’s not ridiculous to wonder whether our daughter knew the man she’s sleeping with has had sex with men.”
Edward flinched.
Not visibly enough for anyone else, perhaps.
But she saw it.
And because she saw it, some part of her felt vindicated.
“You don’t like it either.”
His jaw hardened.
“I don’t like any of this.”
“No. That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Then say it.”
He did not.
That was the problem.
The silence answered too much.
Your mother let out a breath, sharp and humourless.
“Right.”
Edward looked back at the article, jaw locked.
He hated the photograph. He hated the article. He hated the phrase male photographer. He hated the implication that Tom might have made you look foolish. And yes, beneath all that, in a place he did not want to examine too closely, he hated thinking about Tom with a man and then Tom with you. The same hands. The same mouth. The same body. He hated that the thought came to him at all. He hated that it mattered. He hated that it mattered despite Arthur, despite Leo, despite every civilised belief he had ever claimed to hold. It was different, he told himself, because you were his daughter. But that did not make the thought kinder. Only more honest.
Your mother’s voice was lower now.
“What if he wants that still?”
Edward looked up.
“What?”
“Men.”
The word was almost whispered, as if making it quieter made it less ugly.
“What if he wants men still? What if she isn’t enough for him?”
Edward’s face tightened.
“That is not how bisexuality works.”
“How would you know?”
The question hit too cleanly.
He did not answer quickly enough.
She gave a small, bitter laugh.
“Exactly.”
“Do not turn this into proof he will cheat.”
“I am not saying cheat.”
“You are saying it without saying it.”
“I am saying our daughter cannot be a man. If that is something he wants, then where does that leave her?”
“That is an ugly way to put it.”
“It is an ugly situation.”
Edward’s eyes sharpened.
“The ugly part is the article.”
“And the fact she may be in over her head.”
“She may also know more than we do.”
“Then why didn’t she tell us?”
He stared at her.
“Because perhaps she knew exactly how this conversation would go.”
That landed.
Your mother’s face changed.
Hurt first.
Then offence.
Then anger, because anger was easier to defend.
“I am her mother.”
“Yes.”
“I am allowed to be worried.”
“You are allowed to be worried. You are not allowed to make it dirty because you’re uncomfortable.”
Her mouth parted.
“I am not making it dirty.”
Edward did not answer.
She looked away first.
The room was quiet for a moment except for the faint hum of his laptop and the distant noise of traffic below the windows.
Then Edward’s phone buzzed again. Not you. Clara. Your publicist.
He stared at the name for half a second, then answered.
“Clara.”
Her voice was brisk. Too brisk. The tone of a woman who had already answered twelve versions of the same question and was preparing to answer a thirteenth without allowing anyone to hear her irritation.
“Edward. I assume you’ve seen it.”
“Yes.”
Your mother turned sharply at the sound of Clara’s name.
Edward put the call on speaker without looking at her.
“Have you spoken to Y/N?”
“Not directly in the last fifteen minutes. I’ve spoken to her through messages and with Tom’s team as well as the studio’s team, which is why I am calling you.”
“Has she issued anything?”
A pause.
Tiny.
Professional.
“Yes.”
Edward’s stomach tightened.
Your mother froze beside the desk.
“And?”
Clara’s voice cooled by half a degree.
“Her statement confirms that she was aware of Frank Connor before entering the relationship with Tom. There was no overlap, no deception, and no betrayal. She condemns the publication of private photographs and the false implication of scandal around consensual private relationships.”
Edward closed his eyes.
Relief came first. Immediate. Physical. You had known. You had not been blindsided. You had not found out beside everyone else.
Then the rest followed. You had known. You had known Tom was bisexual. You had known about Frank. You had chosen him anyway.
Your mother gripped the back of the chair.
“She knew?”
Clara paused.
“Who is that?”
Edward opened his eyes.
“Her mother is here.”
“I see.”
Your mother stepped closer.
“She knew about that man?”
“Yes.”
“Before she got involved with Tom?”
“Yes.”
“And she knew Tom was…”
She stopped. The word would not come easily this time.
Clara let the silence sit.
Edward’s jaw tightened.
Your mother forced it out.
“Bisexual?”
Another pause.
This one colder.
“Yes. Y/N was aware of the relevant private context before the relationship began.”
Clara’s voice was cool now. Controlled. Professional. But there was an edge beneath it.
“We did not fabricate her statement, Edward. She insisted that it be made clear there was no overlap, no deception, and no betrayal.”
Edward said nothing.
Your mother had gone very still beside the desk.
Clara continued.
“Tom’s team chose to be more conservative. That was his decision. He does not want to make a public statement about his identity, and frankly, he should not have to.”
The silence that followed was sharp.
Edward looked at the article still open on his screen.
Tom and Frank. The headline. The bait. Then your name, now attached to a statement you had apparently insisted on making.
“Right,” he said finally.
Clara’s voice stayed firm.
“Y/N knows what she is saying.”
The warning was polite. Barely.
Edward almost admired it. Almost.
“Understood.”
“Good.”
Then Clara added, more pointedly, “She is safe. She is with Tom. She does not want to speak to press or production until she is ready, which is why she asked me to contact you directly. I assume the studio will want to put out its own statement, and she wanted her position made clear before that happens.”
Your mother inhaled sharply.
Edward glanced at her but did not speak.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I’ll keep you updated on anything relevant to production.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, neither of them moved. Then your mother sat down slowly.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“Before.”
“Yes.”
“That he had been with men.”
Edward’s jaw clenched.
“Yes.”
Your mother stared at the dark screen of her phone. The article had gone black. Now she could only see her own reflection, pale and tight and older than she had looked that morning.
“And she is fine with it.”
Edward said nothing.
She looked up.
“Apparently.”
“That is what the statement says.”
“Statements are not feelings.”
“No.”
“She is in love with him. She will say she’s fine. She will want to seem modern and calm and unbothered.”
“Do not patronise her.”
“I am not patronising her.”
“You are.”
“I am her mother.”
“Those are not always different things.”
She flinched.
He regretted it immediately.
Not enough to take it back.
The truth had already made the room uglier. Taking one sentence back would not clean it.
Your mother looked at the photograph again, unlocking her phone as though she needed to punish herself with it.
“I don’t like thinking about him with men and then with her.”
Edward looked away. That was the sentence. The honest one. Small. Unkind. Human. He hated that she had said it. He hated more that he felt it too. And yet he did not say anything.
So the article sat between them like evidence of something neither of them knew how to hold without leaving fingerprints.
Edward’s phone buzzed again.
Alana. Production. Containment.
He looked at the message, grateful for the interruption and ashamed of the gratitude.
“I have to go in.”
Your mother looked up sharply.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“What about Y/N?”
“She is not answering.”
“Call again.”
“No.”
“Edward.”
“No. If she knew, then this is not ours to interrogate tonight.”
Your mother stared at him.
“So we just accept it?”
He picked up his coat from the back of the chair.
“No. We try not to make it worse before we understand it.”
“And if there is nothing to understand? If she simply accepts all of this because she thinks that makes her a better person?”
Edward stopped at the door.
His face hardened.
“Then perhaps it does.”
That silenced her.
He regretted it as soon as he said it.
But again, not enough to take it back.
At the door, he paused.
“If she calls, ask if she is all right.”
Your mother’s mouth trembled with anger she would rather die than admit was partly shame.
“And then?”
He looked back at her.
“Listen.”
“That is easy for you to say when you are leaving.”
His hand tightened around the doorframe.
“I am leaving because if I stay, we will both keep saying things we should be ashamed of.”
This time, she looked away first.
Edward left before either of them could make it worse.
********
At the studio, the article did not arrive like news.
It arrived like impact.
The edit suite had been operating in that overheated, over-caffeinated state that came near the end of a film, where everyone had strong opinions about pauses, eyelids, continuity glasses, and whether a breath was devastating or merely long.
Kurt was standing behind the editors with a mug of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other, arguing with Sven about whether a scene needed more silence.
Sven said, “It already has silence.”
Kurt said, “It has absence of dialogue. That is not the same thing.”
One of the editors muttered, “I’m going to put that on your gravestone.”
Kurt pointed at her with the biscuit.
“Good. Make sure the font is tasteful.”
Then Sven’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
His eyebrows lifted.
Only slightly at first.
Then higher.
“Oh.”
Kurt did not look away from the monitor.
“If that is another continuity note about the glass, delete it.”
“It is not the glass.”
The second editor looked up.
“What is it?”
Sven opened the article fully.
The photograph loaded.
His face did something complicated.
Interest first, because he was human and the headline had been designed to provoke it.
Then discomfort, because he was decent enough to know he was looking at something stolen.
Then, finally, professional dread.
“Kurt.”
Kurt turned.
“What?”
Sven handed him the phone.
Kurt took it impatiently. Read. Stopped. Looked at the photograph. Then inhaled tea. Not sipped. Inhaled.
He coughed so violently the biscuit broke in his hand and half of it landed on the console.
“Jesus,” one editor snapped, lunging to protect the keyboard.
Kurt waved a hand, coughing and laughing at the same time, which made everything worse.
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“I am professionally fine.”
Sven leaned against the desk.
“That sounds like a lie.”
Kurt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the article again.
The laughter drained out of him.
“Fuck.”
That sobered the room.
Kurt swore constantly, but not like that.
Not flatly.
Not without theatre.
Sven watched him.
“They’re implying—”
“Of course they are.”
Kurt scrolled.
His jaw tightened.
“Parasites.”
One editor, unable to stop herself, looked at the image again.
“Should we be looking at this?”
Everyone went still.
Because the answer was no.
Obviously no.
And yet the phone was in the room, the image had been seen, and now each of them had become part of the audience the photograph had been stolen for.
Kurt locked the screen and put the phone face down.
“No.”
The room changed.
The film was still paused on the monitor.
Tom’s face filled the screen in close-up, but this Tom was fictional. Or had been meant to be. Carefully lit. Directed. Chosen. A version of vulnerability everyone in the room had permission to study.
The tabloid photograph had no such permission.
That was the difference.
And for a moment, everyone felt it.
Then Alana called.
Kurt answered on speaker because by then there was no pretending the room would not need to know the professional shape of the disaster.
Her voice came through clipped and calm.
The kind of calm that had blood under it.
“You’ve seen it?”
Kurt looked at the dead phone.
“Yes.”
“No one comments. No one posts. No one speaks to crew beyond the internal line. Legal are reviewing. Publicity are coordinating with Tom and Y/N’s teams. Edward is being called in.”
Sven made a very small sound.
Kurt looked at him.
“Do not.”
Sven lifted both hands.
“I said nothing.”
Alana continued.
“The line is privacy violation, false implication of timeline, and support for cast welfare. No speculation about identity. No jokes.”
Kurt looked directly at Sven.
Sven looked offended.
“Why did you look at me?”
“Instinct.”
“Rude.”
Alana said, “I’m not joking.”
“No one thought you were,” Kurt said.
That was true.
Alana had not sounded amused since the first scandal broke and possibly not before.
She arrived in the edit suite twelve minutes later with a tablet, two phones, and the expression of someone who had just watched a controlled fire become weather.
Edward arrived behind her.
Still in his coat.
Face set.
The room adjusted itself around him before anyone said a word.
Producer.
Father.
Dangerous combination.
Sven, unfortunately, had his back to the door.
He was looking at the locked phone, then at the monitor, then apparently at a private thought he should absolutely not have verbalised.
“Real shame,” he said.
Kurt froze.
“Sven.”
Sven continued, unaware of death behind him.
“I could have made a move on him had I known what I know now. Now he is bloody taken. Tragic timing, really.”
No one breathed.
Sven saw the editors’ faces.
Then Kurt’s.
Then slowly turned.
Edward stood in the doorway.
His expression was entirely unreadable, which somehow made it worse.
Sven’s face emptied of blood.
“Shit.”
Kurt closed his eyes.
Sven straightened with the desperate dignity of a man walking himself toward execution.
“Sorry. Producer. Father. Possible future father-in-law. I said nothing.”
Edward looked at him.
A long silence.
Then, flatly, “Clearly.”
One of the editors made a tiny strangled sound and pretended it was a cough.
Alana looked as if she had left her body.
Kurt rubbed his forehead.
“This is, somehow, not the worst thing that has happened today.”
Edward’s gaze moved to him.
“Is everyone enjoying themselves?”
“No.”
“It sounded like it.”
“That was gallows humour.”
“I didn’t see a gallows.”
Kurt set down his mug.
“Give it twenty minutes.”
Alana cut in before either man could sharpen further.
“We have two immediate priorities. Protect the production from additional leaks, and protect Tom and Y/N from crew speculation.”
Edward’s jaw tightened at your name.
“Has she been reached?”
Alana’s expression softened by a degree.
“Her statement has gone out.”
“I know.”
“She confirmed she knew before the relationship began. No overlap.”
Edward nodded once.
Too stiffly.
Kurt watched him, then said, quieter, “She handled it well.”
Edward’s eyes cut to him.
“She should not have had to handle it at all.”
Kurt did not argue.
For once.
“No.”
The monitor still held Tom’s face.
Sven looked at it.
Then, all humour gone, said, “Poor bastard.”
Edward looked at him.
This time he did not reprimand him.
His voice was low.
“Yes.”
And in Tom’s house, while they stood around discussing lines and leaks and welfare and containment, Tom sat on the floor with his back against the sofa and ignored another call from Ruth.
*********
Your phone had been face down for so long that when you finally turned it over, the missed-call list looked absurd.
There was exhaustion in his face, but also that reflexive guilt again, the one that kept trying to make other people’s reactions his responsibility.
“Y/N.”
“No.”
“They’ll be worried.”
“They’ll be many things. Worried may be one of them.”
His expression tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
You gave him a look.
He stopped.
“Right.”
“You do not have to apologise every time someone else behaves badly near us.”
“It’s becoming a habit.”
“Break it.”
He stared at the carpet. And then his phone buzzed again.
Ruth.
Both of you looked at it. This time, the air changed. His mother was one thing. Rob and Sam another. Your parents another. But Ruth was not only an ex. Ruth was Ellie’s mother. And Ellie was the one name he had been bleeding around all afternoon.
The call rang and rang. Tom’s hand tightened around the glass.
You thought for one awful second it might crack.
Then the call stopped.
A message appeared.
RUTH: Call me. Now.
Tom stared at it. Every bit of colour the food had managed to restore left his face.
You picked up the phone before he could. Not to read more. Not to interfere. Just to take it out of his line of sight.
“Not yet.”
His eyes stayed on the place the phone had been.
“If it’s about Ellie—”
“She will text again if it is urgent.”
“Ruth won’t.”
“Then Ruth can learn.”
He let out a strained breath.
“You say that as if my ex is a trainable horse.”
“No. Horses are lovely.”
He blinked.
Then, impossibly, laughed.
It was tiny. Barely there. But it loosened something in the room.
*********
The peace and calm lasted less than half an hour. That was all.
Less than half an hour of silence, of Tom’s shoulder against yours, of his breathing lowering into something that was not calm, not really, but at least no longer panic. Less than half an hour of both phones lying face down on the far end of the coffee table like sleeping animals you did not trust.
Then the doorbell rang.
Tom opened his eyes. The sound went through him visibly. Not because it was loud. Because there was no one left you wanted on the other side of that door.
You both sat perfectly still. The bell rang again. Then there was a hard knock. Not frantic. Controlled. Angry.
Tom’s face changed before either of you moved.
“Ruth.”
He said her name like a diagnosis.
You stood when he did.
“Tom.”
“If it’s about Ellie—”
“I know.”
He looked at you. His face was pale again, all the slight colour the food had managed to put back into him gone in one instant.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“No. I’m not hiding in the kitchen like an affair.”
Something flickered in his face at that. Pain. Recognition. He looked away.
The knock came again. Sharper this time.
“Tom, open the door.”
Ruth’s voice carried through the hall. Not a shout. Worse. The kind of voice people used when they were trying not to shout because they wanted to stay righteous.
Tom closed his eyes briefly. Then went to the door. You followed at a distance, not close enough to crowd him, not far enough to pretend you were not there.
He opened it.
Ruth stood on the doorstep, coat thrown over one arm, phone in the other hand, face pale with fury. She looked composed only if someone did not know what composition cost her. Her hair was too neat. Her mouth too tight. Her eyes too bright.
She did not look at you first. She looked at Tom.
“Finally.”
The word hit him. You saw it. His shoulders pulled back slightly, as if he had braced for something physical.
“Is Ellie all right?”
Ruth gave a humourless laugh.
“Is Ellie all right? What do you think, Tom?”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m asking you.”
“She is at school with girls sending her that article and asking whether her father cheated on his apparently very cool girlfriend with a man.”
Tom flinched. There was no hiding it. The movement was small, but she saw it. So did you.
His hand went briefly to the doorframe.
“Jesus.”
“Yes. Jesus. That is about where we are.”
Ruth stepped inside without asking.
Tom moved back because the alternative would have been physically blocking her, and he would not do that. Not with Ellie between them. Not even now.
Her eyes found you then. For one hard second, the entire hallway seemed to narrow around the look she gave you. Not surprise. Not even contempt. A kind of bitter confirmation.
“Of course you’re here.”
You did not move.
“Ruth.”
Tom’s voice was warning and exhaustion in one.
She ignored it.
“No. Don’t Ruth me. I called you seven times.”
“I couldn’t answer.”
“You couldn’t answer?”
Her laugh was sharp.
“You can issue statements through publicists. You can let her issue statements. You can sit here with your twenty-four-year-old girlfriend while my daughter is having your private life shoved in her face at school, but you couldn’t answer the phone?”
Tom went white around the mouth.
Your hand curled once at your side.
“Do not bring Y/N into it.”
“She is already in it.”
Ruth’s voice rose. Not screaming. Not yet. But loud enough that the house seemed to hold the sound.
“She is in the article. She is in your statement. She is in Ellie’s life. She is in the middle of our family now because you decided to play house while everything else was already on fire.”
Tom’s face hardened.
“Stop.”
“No.”
Ruth turned fully toward him again.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t aware I was being photographed.”
“You were on a balcony.”
“A private balcony.”
“In London. With photographers sniffing around because of the film and your young girlfriend and every reckless decision you have made lately.”
You went very still.
Tom glanced at you. A silent warning. Not yet. Then he looked back at Ruth.
“The photograph was private.”
“And you gave them something to take.”
Silence snapped through the hallway.
Tom looked down. The words landed exactly where Ruth had aimed them. Not at the photographer. Not at the paper. At him. His fingers went slack at his side for half a second, as if the accusation had entered his body so cleanly it interrupted even his grip.
Then Ruth said the thing that made the room go cold.
“Tom, we agreed.”
Tom did not move. At all.
Ruth stepped farther into the house, the door still open behind her, the evening air coming in cold around everyone’s ankles.
“We agreed you would keep this private. Away from Ellie. Away from the public. Away from my life. This was never supposed to become public. Never.”
Your body moved before your better judgement could catch it. Not toward her. Just upright. Alert.
“Oh my God. What the hell?”
Tom’s eyes snapped to you. Ruth did too. Her expression changed.
“Excuse me?”
You took one step into the hall.
“You agreed he would keep his sexuality hidden?”
Tom whispered, “Y/N.”
Not a command. A plea for care. But Ruth did not deserve the gentler version. Not after that.
Ruth’s eyes narrowed.
“This is not your conversation.”
“Then maybe don’t have it in front of me.”
“I would not be having it in front of you if Tom had answered his phone.”
“And I would not be in it if you hadn’t just said he agreed to keep part of himself away from your life like it was something dirty.”
Ruth’s face hardened.
“Get your girlfriend to stay out of this.”
Tom’s jaw tightened.
“Do not—”
But Ruth cut him off. She had momentum now. Old anger had found a fresh doorway.
“She is a child herself, Tom. She has no idea what she has walked into. She has no idea what years of this felt like. Years of you being careful. Years of me wondering when something would slip, when Ellie would hear something, when I would have to explain why her father had decided that it was a good idea to sleep with men.”
Tom looked as if she had struck him. Not because everything she said was new. Because some of it was old enough to have roots.
Your stomach turned.
“Because you thought it was embarrassing? Is that it?”
Tom’s head turned sharply.
“Y/N.”
But Ruth had heard enough. Her face went still.
Then, brutally, “Yes, actually.”
The honesty stopped even Tom.
Ruth’s voice shook now, but she did not soften.
“Yes. It is embarrassing. It is embarrassing for Ellie to see photographs like this. It is embarrassing for girls at school to ask if her father is gay. It is embarrassing for me to have everyone looking back over my marriage like there was something wrong with it, like I missed something, like I was some stupid wife standing next to a man who wanted men.”
Tom’s face crumpled for one second. Only one. Then he pulled it back into shape with visible effort.
“That is not fair.”
“No? Which part?”
His voice was rough now.
“All of it.”
“You think I wanted to feel like that?”
Ruth’s voice cracked, and she seemed to hate herself for it immediately. So she sharpened again.
“You think I enjoyed lying next to you wondering if I had ever been enough? If you were thinking about something I could never be? If everyone would look at me one day and think, poor Ruth, poor stupid Ruth, she had a child with a man who wanted men?”
Tom swallowed.
“That was never what our relationship was like, and you know that.”
“Well, maybe not for you. But for me it was. It was what it felt like.”
For a second, the anger shifted. Not vanished. Shifted. You saw it then, buried under the disgust and the blame and the cruel old words. Ruth had not only been embarrassed by Tom. She had been humiliated by herself. By the fear that she had not been enough. By the idea that his desire for men had somehow made a fool of her body, her marriage, her womanhood.
It almost made you pity her. Almost.
Then she looked at Tom again with that same tight, punishing face, and the pity burned away.
“You were not careful enough.”
The words were quieter than the rest.
Somehow worse.
“That is what this is. You were not careful enough. You knew what this would do. You knew what people would say. You knew Ellie would be dragged into it. And you still let yourself be photographed kissing some guy on a balcony like some teenager with no responsibilities.”
Tom’s breath caught. You heard it.
So did Ruth, probably. She did not stop.
“Now I have to explain this to Ellie.”
Tom’s voice lowered.
“I will explain it to Ellie.”
“She already called me from school.”
His whole body changed.
“What?”
“She saw it at lunch. Someone sent it to her. Then someone asked if I knew. Then someone asked if you were gay.”
The blood left his face.
“Is she all right?”
“She is confused.”
Ruth’s voice broke on the word, then hardened instantly, as if she hated giving him anything that sounded like pain.
“Of course she is confused. She is sixteen. She should not have to think about her father like this.”
There it was again. Like this.
Your anger came hot and fast.
“Like what?”
Ruth went silent. Tom looked at you. You stepped closer, voice low but shaking.
“No, genuinely. Like what? Because the thing that is humiliating here is the article. The theft. The way people are talking. Not him kissing another man. Not him being bisexual. And I am fairly sure Ellie is old enough to understand that if the adults around her stop acting like it is some family disgrace, it would be much easier for her –“
Ruth snapped back immediately, interrupting you.
“I am not talking to you.”
“No, you’re talking around me. And about the father of your child like he has done something wrong by existing honestly.”
“Do not put words in my mouth.”
“I don’t have to. You are doing fine on your own.”
Tom made a small sound. Half warning. Half panic. But you could not leave it. Not when he was standing there in his own hallway with Ruth’s anger in his face, wearing the expression of someone being dragged back through years of quiet shame and told it had all been prudence.
Ruth’s voice went cold.
“You really think you understand this because you are sleeping with him?”
Tom straightened. Something in his face changed. The hurt did not disappear. But it met something harder.
“Stop.”
Ruth kept going.
“No. She needs to hear it too. She has been in your life for five minutes and now she thinks she can lecture me about my daughter, my marriage, my history with you because she is fucking you.”
“Stop.”
This time, Tom’s voice cut through. Not loud. Not theatrical. Enough.
Ruth stopped.
He looked shaken, pale and exhausted, but there was authority in him now. Not the actor. Not the man in the headline. Ellie’s father. Your boyfriend.
“You do not speak to her like that. And honestly, perhaps we would not even be in this situation if you had been a little more open-minded in the first place.”
Ruth stared at him. For a second, she looked genuinely stunned. Then her face tightened.
“Open-minded?”
Tom did not move.
“Yes.”
“You think this is about me not being open-minded?”
“I think you made it very clear, for a very long time, that this was something to hide. And yes, most of that is on me. I know that. But I wanted to have this conversation with Ellie before. More than once. You were the one who kept saying no.”
Ruth’s mouth parted, offended before she was ashamed.
“I was protecting Ellie.”
“No. You were protecting yourself from feeling embarrassed.”
That landed. Ruth breathed hard.
“My priority is Ellie. Don’t twist that, Tom.”
“So is mine.”
“Then you should have thought about her before you let this happen.”
Tom closed his eyes. It hurt him. You saw that. But this time he did not absorb it silently.
“Like I said, I did not let someone take a private photograph.”
“You were careless.”
“I was private.”
“Not private enough.”
Tom opened his eyes. They were bright. Too bright.
“No.”
The word was soft.
Ruth went quiet.
Tom swallowed.
Then said it again.
“No.”
This time it was steadier.
“I am not accepting that. Not today.”
Ruth folded her arms across herself, coat still hooked over one elbow, phone gripped in one hand like evidence.
“Of course you aren’t.”
Tom frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you never accept that this affects other people.”
“I have accepted that for years.”
“No, Tom. You haven’t. Because it kept coming up. And it’s coming up now.”
His face went still. You felt that one land differently. Not because it was fair. Because there was just enough truth in it to wound.
Ruth saw it and pushed.
“You wanted me to make it easy for you when you came out to me. You wanted to say that it’s fine and have me sit there like some enlightened little wife and nod along as if it didn’t change everything.”
Tom’s jaw worked once.
“It did not change everything.”
“It changed me.”
The words broke loose before she could stop them. For a second, she looked almost horrified to have said it. Then she clung to it.
“It changed the way I looked at you. The way I looked at myself. The way I understood our relationship. And you never wanted to deal with that. You wanted to skip straight to acceptance.”
Tom’s face softened with guilt. Immediately. Dangerously. You saw him preparing to step into the old role, the apologetic one, the one that made his body smaller and Ruth’s pain the only pain in the room.
You moved before he could.
“No.”
Both of them looked at you.
Tom blinked.
“Y/N—”
“No.”
This time your voice was not soft. It was not comforting. It was firm enough that even Ruth stopped breathing for a second.
“I may not be a parent and may be young, but…”
Ruth’s expression tightened, as if she had been ready to use that against you and you had taken the weapon out of her hand.
You kept going.
“I do know what it is like to grow up in a house where shame becomes all-consuming. I know what it is like when guilt sits in every room until nobody can tell the difference between love and punishment anymore.”
The hallway went still. Tom’s eyes changed. He knew enough of your history to know you were not speaking abstractly.
Ruth did not. But she heard something in your voice that made her stop sneering.
“And that is where this is going. And it needs to stop!”
You looked at Ruth.
“You are making him feel guilty and ashamed because you are drowning in your own guilt and shame. You were embarrassed then. You are embarrassed now. And instead of dealing with that honestly, you have both turned it into a fight about Ellie.”
Ruth’s lips parted.
“That is not—”
“It is.”
You cut her off. Not loudly. Cleanly.
“It is exactly what is happening. You are hurt because you never felt enough for him. Fine. That is painful. I am not mocking that. I am not saying it didn’t matter. But him being bisexual did not make you less of a woman. It did not make your relationship a lie. It did not make you stupid. And it does not give you the right to make Ellie carry your humiliation now.”
Ruth stared at you. For once, she had no immediate answer.
So you turned to Tom. He looked almost afraid of what you would say. Good. He should be a little afraid.
“And you.”
His throat moved.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Ruth’s eyebrows lifted despite herself.
You ignored her.
“You should have stood up against this rubbish years ago.”
Tom flinched.
You hated it. You still did not take it back.
“Not because it was simple. Not because Ruth should have magically been fine overnight. Not because Ellie was easy to talk to when she was small. I understand why you avoided it. I understand why silence felt safer than conflict.”
Your voice softened by one degree.
Only one.
“But you let that silence become the rule. You let shame dress itself up as privacy. And now Ellie is finding out from strangers because the two of you could not get your shit together before the world did it for you.”
Tom looked away. His eyes were wet.
Ruth stood rigid, visibly furious and visibly shaken.
You took a breath.
“So let’s fucking move on.”
The bluntness landed like a slap.
Both of them looked back at you.
“Not from the history. Not from the hurt. You can unpack all that later with a therapist and several bottles of wine if you like. I don’t mind. But right now? You both need to function together because Ellie is the one walking into this next.”
Ruth’s mouth tightened.
“You think it is that easy?”
“No. I think it is that necessary.”
Tom wiped one hand over his mouth.
You looked between them and carried on.
“You need to agree on the basics before she gets here.”
Ruth gave a short, bitter laugh.
“The basics.”
“Yes, Ruth. The basics. Because apparently that is where you and Tom are at.”
She bristled.
You did not care.
“The article is the problem.”
Tom nodded immediately.
“Yes.”
You looked at Ruth.
She did not speak.
“Ruth.”
Her eyes flashed.
Then, stiffly, “The article is the problem.”
“The photograph being taken and published is the problem.”
Tom said, “Yes.”
Ruth swallowed.
“Yes.”
“The people at school being cruel are the problem.”
Tom nodded again.
Ruth’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
You held her gaze.
“Tom being bisexual is not the problem. It might be for you, Ruth, but it should not be for Ellie.”
Silence.
The sentence sat there.
Obvious.
Impossible.
Tom looked at Ruth. Ruth looked at the wall behind him, her throat moving as if the words had lodged somewhere she could not swallow.
“Ruth.”
Your voice was quiet now.
Not gentle.
Quiet.
Finally, stiffly, she said, “Tom being bisexual is not the problem.”
It did not sound natural. It did not sound comfortable. It barely sounded believed.
But it was said.
And sometimes, apparently, adults had to begin by saying the obvious thing out loud like children learning rules.
Tom’s face shifted.
Not relief exactly.
Something sadder.
The unbearable lateness of it.
You nodded once.
“Good.”
Ruth’s eyes came back to you.
“Do not talk to me like I am one of your friends.”
“Then stop behaving like someone who needs peer mediation in a hallway.”
Tom made a choked sound.
Ruth glared at him.
He immediately looked down.
You did not smile.
There was nothing funny in it, not really.
Then, because the whole thing had gone so far past normal that sarcasm was apparently the only thing keeping you upright, you exhaled and said, “God. I should be a therapist.”
Neither of them laughed.
You looked between them.
Tom, pale and bruised-looking, his mouth tight, guilt sitting all over him like weather.
Ruth, rigid with old shame and fresh fury, still holding herself like if she loosened one inch, everything she had kept contained for years would come spilling out in front of the wrong person.
You.
The wrong person.
The twenty-four-year-old girlfriend.
The problem.
The child.
Fine.
You were still the only person in the hallway currently making sense.
“Right,” you said, because if you did not make this practical now, they were going to start bleeding all over each other again. “Who is picking Ellie up from school?”
Tom looked at Ruth.
Ruth looked at him.
For one second, the old fight tried to come back.
You could see it gathering in both of them.
Custody.
Control.
Who got to decide.
Who had failed more.
Who had the right to be angry.
Then Ruth inhaled, sharp through her nose, and looked away first.
“I will.”
Tom’s jaw tightened.
“Ruth—”
“No.”
Her voice was still hard, but it had lost some of its earlier cruelty. Not enough to be kind. Enough to be functional.
“I will pick her up. I will bring her here so you can talk to her. Privately.”
Tom swallowed.
“All right.”
Ruth’s eyes flicked to you.
“If she wants you here, that is her choice.”
You nodded.
“Good.”
She looked back at Tom.
“But if she wants to leave, you call me. Immediately.”
Tom’s face tightened, not with anger this time, but with the ache of being told to let his daughter go if she asked.
Still, he nodded.
“Immediately.”
Ruth held his gaze for another second, as if searching for something she did not trust him to give.
Then she stepped back toward the door.
Her hand found the handle.
For one strange moment, no one moved.
There should have been an apology there.
From someone.
Anyone.
There was not.
Only the wreckage of too many years of silence and one afternoon of everyone finally saying the worst parts out loud.
Ruth opened the door.
Cold air slipped into the hall.
At the threshold, she paused.
Her back was to you both when she said, quieter, “Five o’clock.”
Tom’s voice was rough.
“Okay.”
She left.
The door closed behind her.
Not slammed.
Worse.
Carefully.
Like she was still trying to prove she had control over something.
For a long moment, neither you nor Tom spoke.
The house seemed to hold its breath around you.
Then Tom lowered his head.
His hand went to his mouth.
You thought, for a second, he might be sick.
Instead he just stood there, staring at the floor where Ruth had been, as if the shape of the argument had burned itself into the tiles.
You moved closer.
Not touching him yet.
Not until he looked at you.
When he finally did, his eyes were red.
“I should have told Ellie a long time ago.”
Your throat tightened.
You wanted to comfort him.
You wanted to lie.
You did neither.
“Yes.”
He flinched.
You hated that.
You still did not take it back.
“You should have.”
He nodded once.
Barely.
“I know.”
You stepped closer then and took his hand.
Cold.
Still shaking faintly.
“And Ruth should never have made you feel ashamed of it.”
His fingers tightened around yours.
Not much.
Enough.
“Both things can be true,” you said.
Tom closed his eyes.
For a second, all of him seemed to fold inward.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Stay?”
You squeezed his hand.
“Yes.”
Outside, somewhere across the city, Ellie was still at school, still carrying questions no child should have had to collect from strangers.
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