You had tried to dissuade the sellers from an open house. In your experience, they rarely resulted in a sale—but they insisted, and you complied.

Crossing the room, you weave through the staged perfection, smoothing your expression into a practiced smile. As you reach the door and pull it open a faint familiar scent of cigarettes drifts toward you, catching your nose just before the figure steps into view.

“Good afternoon,” Tommy begins smoothly, his accent peeking out just slightly. You feel your smile waver, but you hold it steady, refusing to let it falter.

Since the unexpected gift appeared at your door, you hadn’t stopped working with him. He never mentioned it, and you made sure not to either. No thanks, no questions about how he found your address or why he sent it. You simply pretended it never happened, reminding yourself this was strictly business—nothing more.

“Hello, Tommy,” you greet him, your voice a touch stiffer than intended. The question nags at the edge of your thoughts—how did he know about the open house? But, like the wine and flowers, you push it aside. Better to let it go. “I didn’t expect to see you today. I thought you passed on this listing when I showed it to you a few days ago.”

His gaze shifts past you, sharp and detached, the faint tang of cigarettes trailing him like a signature. It clings to the air, a phantom of habits you’d come to associate with him. He always had one—always—perched between his fingers or tucked at the corner of his mouth. You’d lost count of how many times you’d told him to put it out, your voice firm, surprisingly he always complied. But now, with his hands empty and his mouth free, he looked odd.

"I think I might have spoken in haste," he says casually, brushing past you with a renewed focus on the staircase. "I wasn’t sold on it before, but I’ve had a few days to sleep on it."

He pauses, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Besides, I can’t afford to waste time. I need to lock something down—sooner rather than later.”

You nod silently, hesitating for a moment, debating whether to follow him. But you stay put, watching as he ascends the stairs with an unhurried pace. At the top, he stops and glances back, those icy blue eyes sweeping over you and the room below, like a king surveying his kingdom.

🚬

The large home is a buzzes of life as more prospective buyers arrive. Smiling, you greet each one with polished charm, answering the same questions over and over with practiced enthusiasm.

They’re all the same—polite, curious, but ultimately deterred by the one thing you can’t control, the price. The house is beautiful, the location ideal, yet the price remains the death knell, reverberating through every conversation.

“Um, are the previous owners smokers?” a blonde woman asks, cutting through your rehearsed routine. Her question catches you off guard, and you blink.

“Oh, no,” you reply, a nervous chuckle slipping out as you steady your smile. “Why do you ask?”

“I smelled smoke when I went to check out the upstairs,” she whispers, leaning in far too close. Her hairspray mingles with scent of her perfume.

Your eyes instinctively scan the crowd, searching for Tommy. Of course, it had to be him.

“That’s odd,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Maybe someone stepped outside for a cigarette earlier, and the scent drifted back in.”

“I don’t think so. It was so strong I had to get away from it. I can’t even smell it down here,” she insists.

“Well, that’s not good,” you concede with a polite smile. “I’ll go check it out.”

You don’t wait for her response. Weaving through the crowd in the hallway, you ascend the stairs with measured steps. Your grip tightens on the railing as you inhale deeply, searching for the faint trace of smoke still lingering in the air.

At the landing, you pause, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. You’re sure you look ridiculous, but you keep your movements subtle, flashing a tight smile when nearby buyers glance your way.

The scent pulls you toward the far end of the hallway. Every door stands wide open as you pass, people milling about inside or out, but the study remains closed. You pause outside it, the smell unmistakably stronger here. You already know what you’ll find inside, yet the dread of confrontation roots you in place.

🚬

The door creaks with your intrusion, its hinges groaning softly in protest. You snap it shut behind you, the soft click blending into the muted buzz of activity filtering up from below.

Tommy stands across from you, leaning against the desk, his face partially obscured by the curling tendrils of smoke rising from his cigarette as he speaks softly into his phone. His eyes flick to yours as you hesitate, unsure of what to do. Your gaze drifts to the cigarette between his fingers, irritation rising slowly, curling upward like the smoke, but you swallow it.

You’ve asked him countless times not to smoke in the house—he knows better. You’re sure of it.

You turn away, your eyes fixating on the window as you storm toward it, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the hardwood floor. Your hands move swiftly, flicking the locks open before gripping the heavy frame, straining as you push it. The window resists, the frame creaking under pressure, and you push harder, determined, the sound of your struggle almost drowning out his conversation.

It finally gives with a frustrating groan, and a cool breeze rushes in, cutting through the smoke with a welcome sharpness. Outside, children laugh and shout as they play in the yard next door, their mother watching from the porch. The scene stirs something faint and unwelcome—a memory of what you once thought you wanted but could never quite hold on to.

As you stare out the window, his reflection catches your eye, making you gasp. At some point, his phone disappeared, the call ended. You hadn’t noticed him approach, sly and silent as a fox stalking unseen.

“Um, I don’t think the sellers would appreciate that,” you say, nodding toward the cigarette in his hand.

He exhales slowly, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. You wave the air in front of your face, trying to push it away.

“You didn’t tell me not to,” he replies coolly, his gaze steady and unreadable.

“Well,” you say, your voice quieter, “it wouldn’t matter to me if you smoke here—if you were buying it.”

He takes another slow drag, his silence stretching just long enough to make you uncomfortable. “I’m still thinking.”

You suppress a sigh. He’s been like this since the beginning, indecisive and inscrutable.

“You’re always thinking,” you say, a smart edge to your voice.

For a fraction of a second, his eyes flicker toward you, a slight tightening of his jaw that you almost miss, before he looks away, lost in the haze of smoke. “Some decisions need a little more clarity,” he says, his tone calm, almost dismissive.

Your lips press into a thin line. Your chest tightens with frustration, but you force yourself to nod. “I see… Well if that’s the case then I think we should end our business here.”

“You promised to find me a house.” He retorts.

“And as I’ve told you before Mr. Shelby-”

“Tommy,” he corrects a bit firmly.

“Mr. Shelby,” you reaffirm. “I can’t help you. I’ve tried. I’ve showed you house after house, but none have suited your taste.”

“So you’re just a quitter then?” Tommy asks, his brow cocked at you quizzically.

"I’m not a quitter," you reply with a sigh, your frustration seeping into your words. "I’ve done everything I can—rearranged my schedule, prioritized you over others, even passed on buyers who were likely more serious—all because you said you needed to buy a house immediately. But now… it’s starting to feel like you’re playing games with me, and I just don’t understand why."

"Still sounds like quitting," he challenges, his voice maddeningly calm.

You bite back the sharp response that rises to your lips, exhaling slowly. “If I knew what you wanted, maybe I could help you more. But as it is… I think it’s best you find another agent.”

He doesn’t react immediately, his gaze drifting to the cigarette in his hand. "Did you drink it yet?" he asks, his tone so casual it throws you off balance.

You hesitate, caught off guard by the sudden question. Why is he bringing this up now?

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He taps out his cigarette, a defiant grin playing at the corners of his lips. Your frown deepens as he taps the cigarette against the hardwood desk. The spot where it lands seems destined to leave a mark. "Though I thought we agreed to share a glass once we finally closed on a house. Guess I’ll have to send another bottle when you finally close the deal for me."

“What?” You blink, hesitating, your brow furrowing. “Are you saying you want to buy this house?”

“I wanted to confirm a few things first. But now? I’m confident in my decision.”

"This is great!" you exclaim, pulling out your phone to quickly text the seller. There’s something odd in his tone, but you push it aside, focusing on what matters: he seems serious about the house, which means commission and an end to these awkward interactions.

“I’ll let the sellers know and get the contract to you ASAP. I’ll send you an email, and once you e-sign, we can start the process. I’ll make sure you get the keys by the end of the day.”

“Slow your horses,” he says, his voice steady, almost amused. “I’m a bit old-fashioned. I want something physical, something I can hold and touch with my hands.”

His gaze lingers, dragging over you like a weight. There was something in his eyes—hunger, maybe. Lust.

“I-I can do that,” you manage, the awkward stammer betraying a calm you don’t feel. You shifted, dismissing the thought. You’d been wrong before, mortifyingly so. It was just him, you told yourself. Just his presence, how he was. “Where… do you want me to take it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, as though savoring your words. When he finally speaks, his tone feels deeper, and his eyes dim with an unfamiliar darkness you can’t place. “My office. I’ll text you the address.”