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Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader,
The Uber ride to your flat was quiet.
Not uncomfortable exactly.
Just full.
You sat by the window with your hands in your lap, thumb worrying at the edge of your nail until Tom gently said, “You’re going to make it bleed.”
You stopped.
Then started picking at your sleeve instead.
Tom pretended not to notice while tapping his foot.
Which, in turn, you pretended not to notice.
At your flat, the air still smelled faintly of Ivy’s perfume.
You noticed.
Tom probably did too.
He did not say anything.
That, too, was a kind of mercy.
You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door and immediately missed, sending them skidding across the floor.
“Perfect,” you said.
Tom picked them up.
“Strong entrance.”
“Thank you. I trained.”
He looked around the flat without making it feel like inspection.
You were grateful and embarrassed simultaneously, which was becoming a familiar emotional cocktail.
“Wine?” you asked.
“If you have it.”
“I have wine, gin, three sad beers and something Arthur left here that I think is either mezcal or paint thinner.”
“Wine is fine.”
You poured two glasses too full.
Tom watched but did not comment.
Smart man.
You handed him one and sat on the sofa, folding your legs under you.
Tom sat at the other end.
Not too close.
Not far enough.
For a while, you both drank in silence.
Then you said, because your brain had apparently lost the ability to approach subjects gently, “Today is the anniversary of my sister’s death.”
Tom’s hand stilled around his glass.
“I know.”
You stared into your wine.
“I’m sorry.”
You nodded.
“Thank you.”
The words felt too small.
All words did, around her.
You took another drink.
“It’s just a lot. My father ripping into me. My mother sending an entire essay about how ashamed I should be. James texting me like I’ve personally desecrated his entire concept of acceptable sexuality.”
Tom’s mouth tightened.
“James is an idiot. We have established that.”
You gave him a tired look.
“Have we?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Good.”
“Let’s talk about your father.”
You groaned.
“Must we?”
“What did he say?”
You looked down at your glass.
“That I don’t care about my career. That I acted out because we had a fight at lunch. That Mum is distraught enough. That he can’t come into set and deal with this mess.”
Tom’s jaw moved.
“And then?”
“That I should call my publicist and contain it because it’s a bad look for his film.”
Tom was quiet.
Too quiet.
You glanced at him.
His face had changed, not dramatically, but enough.
“What?”
“Nothing useful.”
“Say it anyway.”
He took a breath.
“That was cruel.”
Your eyes stung.
You looked away quickly.
“It was practical.”
“It can be both.”
You hated that.
So you drank.
Tom let you.
Then he asked, “What did your publicist say?”
“Not to post. Not to reply. Not to comment.”
“Sensible.”
“She said the woman isn’t the problem.”
“She’s right.”
“She said the problem is timing, James, my father, the movie, the breakup narrative, and apparently my entire existence as a marketing hazard.”
“That last part sounds like your interpretation.”
“My interpretation has flair.”
“It does.”
You looked at him.
He smiled faintly into his glass.
Then he sobered.
“Withdraw yourself from it.”
You frowned.
“From what?”
“The handling of it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“It’s my life.”
“Yes. But you have a publicist you pay good money to. You don’t have to be the one cleaning it up while you’re this raw.”
You blinked.
Tom leaned forward slightly, glass between both hands.
“Let her handle the press. Let her liaise with the studio. That is her job. Just because your father is the producer doesn’t change that.”
You stared at him.
“He won’t like that.”
“I imagine not.”
“He’ll think I’m being difficult.”
“You are allowed to be difficult when people are making your private life a production issue.”
You looked down.
He continued, voice careful but firm.
“From a professional level, refer him to your publicist. From a personal level, tell him no.”
Your mouth twitched.
“Just no?”
“Yes.”
You looked at him then.
Really looked.
He was tired.
You could see it now. The faint shadows under his eyes. The tension at the edge of his mouth. The way he kept holding himself still, like stillness was something he had practised.
“Why are you so sensible?”
He gave a small shrug.
“I have my moments.”
“It’s annoying.”
“So I’ve been told.”
You stared into your glass again.
The room felt warmer now.
Not safe exactly.
But safer than the day had been.
You pulled your phone from the cushion beside you and unlocked it against your better judgement.
Tom’s eyes flicked to it.
“Do you want to do that?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
“But I have to know.”
“Why?”
You opened your mother’s message.
Your eyes moved over the first few lines.
Then stopped.
Your chest went hollow.
Tom watched your face.
“What?”
You swallowed.
For a moment, you could not answer him directly. Your brain had snagged on the message, then snapped back to the conversation you had been having seconds before.
“You know, the worst part isn’t even my father,” you said. “It’s my mother, who has sent me an entire essay this morning about how ashamed I should be.”
Tom said nothing.
You kept reading despite yourself.
“She says I have humiliated the family. That doing this on my sister’s anniversary is unforgivable. That Arthur has already brought enough pain into the family with his choices and now I’m…”
You stopped.
Tom’s voice was low.
“Now you’re what?”
You locked the phone.
“Broken.”
The word hung there.
Tom’s expression changed.
“Broken?” he asked.
You laughed weakly.
“Yes. Broken,” you said, the word tasting bitter.
Tom blinked.
“Because Arthur is gay,” he said slowly, “and you are bisexual?”
You nodded.
“Yeah.”
It was strange, saying it to him.
Not bad.
Just strange.
Like opening a window in a room you had learned to breathe carefully inside.
Tom held your gaze for a second.
Then he said, simply, “And do you believe her?”
You frowned.
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
Your voice came out smaller.
“No.”
“Good.”
You looked at him.
“Good?”
“You shouldn’t, because that’s idiotic.”
The simplicity of it undid you more than any speech would have.
You took a drink because otherwise you might cry again.
Tom waited.
You stared at him over the rim of your glass.
Maybe it was the wine.
Maybe it was exhaustion.
Maybe it was the day, stripping you down to the least sensible parts of yourself.
Maybe it was the fact that he had spoken so plainly about this.
“Can I ask you something?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Sure.”
You regretted it before you said it.
You said it anyway.
“Are you and Frank…”
Tom went very still.
Not dramatically.
Worse.
Quietly.
His hand, which had been resting around his glass, stopped halfway through turning it. His thumb stayed pressed against the stem, too hard, the knuckle going pale.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
Your brain had been noticing everything all evening. The way he tapped his foot when he was thinking. The way he dragged his hand through his hair and then seemed annoyed that he had done it. The way his eyes moved to the window whenever a question got too close.
This question had got too close.
Then his mouth curved.
Faintly.
Carefully.
“That obvious?”
Heat flooded your face.
“No. Not really.”
“But?”
You looked into your glass and immediately became fascinated by the wine as if it contained ancient prophecy.
“Maybe I paid too much attention to you at the gallery.”
Silence.
A full, awful silence.
You realised what you had said half a second too late.
Your eyes snapped up.
Tom was looking at you.
Not smiling now.
Not really.
But there was something else.
“Did you just—”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You said you paid too much attention to me.”
“I meant in a professional observational way.”
“Professional observational.”
“Yes.”
“Of whether I am sleeping with Frank.”
“Actors observe people.”
“Do they?”
“Constantly.”
His eyes were bright with something dangerously close to amusement, but there was still tension in him. Around the jaw. In the hand that had left the glass and gone to his knee, fingers tapping once, twice, then curling into his palm as if he had told them off.
You pointed at him.
“Do not enjoy this.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely are.”
“A little.”
You groaned and pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead.
“I’m going to walk into the sea.”
“We’re not that close to the sea.”
“Then I’ll find a pond.”
His laugh came out under his breath.
Then it faded.
Tom looked down at his glass again.
When he spoke, the amusement had thinned into something more cautious.
“Yes,” he said.
You looked at him.
“Yes?”
He took a moment.
Not because he was ashamed, you realised.
Because he was deciding how to answer without giving you too much or making it sound like a confession he regretted.
“Frank and I sleep with each other occasionally.”
Your stomach dropped.
Not unpleasantly.
Not pleasantly either.
Just dropped.
Like a lift cutting between floors.
You looked back down too fast.
“Right.”
Tom watched you.
You could feel him doing it, even though he was trying not to be obvious.
“Does that bother you?”
You shook your head.
Too quickly.
“No.”
Then, because the answer had come out too sharp, you swallowed and tried again.
“No. It doesn’t. Not because he’s a man. If anything, imagining you and Frank together like this is not unattractive in the slightest.”
Silence.
Your face went hot.
“Oh my God. I didn’t say that.”
Tom’s expression shifted.
Only slightly.
Enough.
His fingers stopped moving against his knee.
“Okay.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not okay. Forget I said that.”
His mouth twitched.
“That may be difficult.”
“Try harder.”
For a second, the tension softened.
Then you changed subject violently, because apparently that was your only survival strategy.
“Does your family know about it?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“About Frank?”
“No. I mean—”
You winced and put the glass down before you could spill it.
“About you being bisexual.”
The word sat there.
Not badly.
Just plainly.
Tom’s expression did not close, exactly, but something in him arranged itself. Like furniture being moved quietly behind a locked door.
“Sorry,” you said quickly.
“Don’t be.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm, maybe.
Then he exhaled, dragged a hand through his hair, and seemed to give up pretending the question had not landed.
“My father probably doesn’t. My mother probably does.”
You frowned.
“Probably?”
His mouth curved without much humour.
“She walked in on me once with someone when I was about sixteen.”
Your eyes widened before you could stop them.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“A boy?”
He looked at you.
“Yes.”
You nodded, then immediately worried the nod looked too eager, then stopped nodding, then hated that you were thinking about nodding.
Tom watched the entire internal collapse happen on your face.
“You can ask,” he said.
“I don’t want to interrogate you.”
“You absolutely do.”
You looked down, embarrassed, but he was smiling faintly now.
Less guarded.
Still nervous, maybe.
But choosing to stay.
“So you knew then?” you asked.
Tom considered it, thumb moving slowly around the rim of his glass.
“I was curious then.”
“That’s not the same thing?”
“Not exactly.”
He looked towards the window for a second, as if checking the distance to the nearest exit, then back at you.
“I think I knew properly maybe a year after that. Still at high school. There was a boy in the year above me.”
You waited.
Tom’s foot started again, one quick restless movement, then stopped.
“He had terrible hair.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
“Very formative.”
“Apparently.”
“Did anything happen?”
The question came out before you could dress it up in tact.
You immediately closed your eyes.
“Sorry. That’s none of my business.”
Tom was quiet long enough that you thought you had pushed too far.
Then he said, carefully, “A kiss. Eventually. A spectacular amount of panic. Then more.”
You opened your eyes.
His face was turned slightly away, but not hidden.
“Were you scared?”
“Terrified.”
“Of him?”
“No,” Tom said. “Of what it meant.”
The answer landed.
You nodded.
Tom glanced at you.
“How about you?”
You looked at him.
“When did I know?”
“If you want to say.”
You picked at the cushion seam a little harder.
“I think I knew before I had the language for it,” you said. “Girls registered for me in the same way boys did. Sometimes more strongly. Sometimes just differently. But I didn’t know what to do with that, so I treated noticing like it meant I had already crossed some invisible line.”
Tom’s gaze stayed on you.
You kept your eyes on the cushion.
“And then there was Jess.”
Tom went still for half a second.
“Jess?”
You glanced up.
There was surprise on his face now.
Not judgement.
Just genuine surprise, sharp enough that it almost made you smile.
“Yes. Jess.”
“You and Jess?”
“A very long time ago. When we were both about sixteen as well.”
Tom blinked.
“Jess isn’t bisexual.”
“No,” you said. “She isn’t. But she was curious.”
“Right.”
“And I was there.”
His mouth moved faintly.
“Convenient.”
You gave him a look.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
He looked down, smiling despite himself.
You took a breath, trying not to make it sound more dramatic than it had been.
“It wasn’t some great love story. It was teenage curiosity and bad timing and too much intensity for a friendship that already had no boundaries. But it mattered to me, I think. More than I admitted at the time.”
Tom’s expression softened.
“Did she know that?”
You shook your head.
“Probably not. Or maybe she did and was kind enough to pretend she didn’t.”
He watched you for another moment.
Then you added, because the silence had become too sincere and therefore intolerable, “So, for the record, I kissed her well before you did.”
Tom stared at you.
Then he laughed.
Properly.
Not loudly, but enough that it broke the tension in the room.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. So if anyone has a prior claim to awkward history with Jess, it’s me.”
“Noted.”
“Good.”
“Do you want that formally acknowledged somewhere?”
“Maybe in the call sheet.”
“I’m sure Kurt would love that.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
“He’d put it under emotional continuity.”
Tom looked at you, still amused, but softer now.
“He might.”
You both took another drink.
No, actually, by then, most of the bottle was gone.
Not enough to make the room spin, but enough to loosen the sharp edges. Enough for the conversation to stop behaving like an interview and start moving sideways, the way your thoughts did when you were tired and overstimulated and a little too warm from wine.
Tom told you about the boy with the terrible hair in more detail than he probably meant to. How he had once spent an entire maths lesson watching him chew the end of a pen and then walked into a doorframe afterward because his brain had apparently abandoned depth perception.
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled wine on the cushion.
“That is painfully teenage.”
“I was painfully teenage.”
“I can’t imagine you teenage.”
“Good. No one should.”
“Were you dramatic?”
Tom gave you a look.
“No.”
You stared at him.
His mouth twitched.
“Fine. Yes.”
“I knew it.”
You told him about Jess then. Not all of it. Not the parts that still felt too private. But enough. The school corridor. The sleepovers. The way she used to steal your lip balm and pretend it was because hers was missing. The first time she kissed you, both of you laughing afterward because neither of you knew how to handle the fact that it had not felt like a joke.
Tom listened.
Actually listened.
He did not interrupt to make it clever. He only asked small questions sometimes, careful ones, the kind that let you decide how much of the door to open.
The conversation wandered.
First crushes.
Worst kisses.
The terrible politics of teenage parties.
The time Tom had been so nervous around a girl he liked that he had spent ten minutes explaining the plot of a film he had not actually seen.
“Why would you do that?”
“I panicked.”
“So you invented cinema?”
“Essentially.”
“Did she notice?”
“Immediately.”
“And?”
“She corrected me for the rest of lunch.”
“Sexy.”
“Devastatingly.”
You laughed again.
It felt strange.
Not wrong.
Just strange, laughing like that on the anniversary of something awful. Laughing with your mother’s message still unread in full. Laughing with James muted, your father furious, your sister gone, and your life apparently available for public consumption because you had kissed a woman outside a bar.
But the laughter did not feel like betrayal.
It felt like air.
For a while, Tom became easy company.
Not simple.
Never simple.
But easier than he had been on set. Less guarded around the edges. He still fidgeted — foot tapping, fingers worrying the label on the wine bottle, hand going through his hair when a thought came too fast — but you stopped reading it as restlessness and started recognising it as something closer to your own noise.
You picked at the cushion seam.
He tapped the bottle label.
Neither of you commented.
There was comfort in that too.
For a little while, you forgot to be ashamed.
You forgot about the article.
You forgot about your father’s voice.
You forgot about your mother calling you broken.
You even forgot, for minutes at a time, that Tom was the person you were supposed to be careful around.
He was just there.
On your sofa.
Drinking your wine.
Understanding things without making you explain them until they became smaller.
The quiet after that was different.
Less fragile.
More honest.
You took another drink, slower this time.
Tom watched the movement of the glass, then looked back at your face.
You were not sure when the banter had thinned into something more serious again.
Maybe it had been happening for several minutes.
Maybe neither of you had wanted to notice.
Eventually, you asked, “Are you open about it?”
Tom gave you a look.
“Do I seem open about things?”
“No.”
“There’s your answer.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Why not?”
He looked away.
“It’s easier not to be.”
“Easier how?”
Tom breathed in slowly.
For a second, you thought he might retreat.
Then he did not.
“Because people decide things. They think it means more than it means. Or less. They become fascinated by the wrong part of you.”
You nodded.
“Yeah.”
“And because sometimes the people who say they don’t care absolutely do.”
You thought of your mother.
Tom thought of someone else.
You could see it.
“Who?”
He looked down into his glass.
For a moment, you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, “A few people over the years.”
You waited.
His thumb moved around the rim of the glass, slow and restless.
“Including some of my exes.”
Your voice softened.
“Ellie’s mum?”
Tom’s eyes flicked up to yours.
Then away again.
“Yes.”
He took a breath.
“She found out halfway through our relationship.”
You frowned.
“Found out?”
His mouth twisted.
“Not my finest phrasing.”
“Did you not tell her?”
“Not at first.”
You did not say anything.
He deserved the space to explain or not.
He chose to.
“I was younger. More cowardly. Or maybe just tired of making everything a discussion before I knew whether it mattered.”
“And did it?”
“To her, yes.”
You watched him.
His face had gone very still.
“She never accepted it. Not really. She tried. Sometimes. Or said she was trying. But there was always this… suspicion.”
“That you would cheat?”
He looked at you.
“That I would eventually go off with a man because she wasn’t enough.”
Your face changed.
“That’s ridiculous.”
His expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“Yes.”
“It is.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it. That’s like saying if I’m with a man, I’ll inevitably run off with a woman because he can’t be a woman. It’s stupid.”
Tom looked at you for a long second.
Then his mouth moved.
“Yes.”
You realised you had sounded angrier than he had.
You sat back, embarrassed.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
His voice was quieter now.
“It’s nice, actually.”
You looked at him.
“What is?”
“Hearing someone say it like it’s obvious.”
Your chest tightened.
You looked down.
Tom continued after a moment.
“Ruth and I ended for a lot of reasons. That was one of them.”
“And your ex-fiancée? The one before New York?”
His face closed a little.
Not fully.
Enough.
“No.”
“No?”
“I didn’t tell her.”
You did not know why that made you sad.
Maybe because you could imagine how carefully he must have folded himself away.
“Why?”
“Because by then I was very good at not complicating things.”
The sentence sat between you.
You understood it too well.
“Were there others who knew?”
He nodded.
“Two. In between. Not serious.”
“And?”
His mouth tightened slightly.
“One ended because of it.”
“Because she minded?”
“Yes,” he said. “She did.”
Your face softened.
“That’s awful.”
Tom looked down into his glass.
“It was. And it became one of the reasons I didn’t tell other women I went out with after that.”
He gave a small, humourless laugh.
“Which I realise now is a rather stupid foundation to build anything on.”
You watched him.
“Self-protection usually is.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
For a second, he looked almost startled by the accuracy of it.
Then he nodded once.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Exactly.”
**********
The wine had settled warm in your limbs now.
Not enough to make you foolish.
Enough to make you honest, which was often worse.
“And Frank?”
Tom looked at you.
“What about Frank?”
“You like him.”
“I do.”
Something in your stomach twisted.
Tom saw it.
His voice stayed even.
“Not romantically.”
You looked down.
“You don’t have to clarify.”
“I think I do.”
Your eyes lifted.
Tom held your gaze.
“Because if I did, I would stand to that differently.”
You looked at him.
Tom held your gaze for a moment longer, then glanced down at his glass, thumb moving once around the rim.
“I mean, if I wanted a relationship with Frank, I wouldn’t pretend it was something else. I might be private about it. I’m private about most things. But I wouldn’t hide from what it was.”
He took a breath.
“And it isn’t that. Frank knows that. I know that. Neither of us wants it to be.”
You nodded slowly.
The answer was clear.
Annoyingly clear.
“So he’s just part of your rota.”
Tom blinked.
“Really?”
You looked down into your glass.
“What?”
“We’re back to the rota?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did.”
“Not literally.”
“No, of course. I don’t imagine you think I keep a spreadsheet.”
You winced.
“Please don’t say spreadsheet.”
“Is Frank colour-coded?”
“Tom.”
“Do I rotate him by week or by emotional availability?”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m trying to decide whether to be offended.”
“Are you?”
He looked at you for a second.
Then his expression softened, just slightly.
“No,” he said. “But I am wondering why you keep saying it doesn’t bother you as if saying it enough times will make it true.”
You looked down into your glass.
“It doesn’t.”
Tom’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Sure.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Hmm.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Do not hmm me.”
“I’m not hmming you.”
“You absolutely just hmm’d me.”
“I made a neutral sound.”
“There was nothing neutral about it.”
His mouth twitched.
You hated that you noticed.
You hated even more that you wanted to smile.
For a moment, neither of you looked away.
That was the problem.
Looking at him had become its own kind of bad decision.
The room shifted.
It had been shifting for a while, maybe.
You only noticed it then.
Tom was sitting closer than before.
Or you were.
You could not remember who had moved.
His knee was almost touching yours.
His glass sat forgotten on the table.
Your face was still hot, but not only from embarrassment now.
Tom looked at you, and the carefulness was there again, but thinner. Worn down by wine and honesty and the fact that both of you had spent hours saying things people did not usually say out loud.
His eyes dropped.
Just briefly.
To your mouth.
Then back up.
That was worse.
Your breath caught in a stupid, obvious way.
Tom heard it.
Of course he did.
You both froze, as if the sound had given something away neither of you had agreed to admit.
The silence stretched.
Not empty.
Not awkward.
Charged.
Your knees touched.
Barely.
Neither of you moved away.
Tom inhaled, slow and unsteady enough that your stomach tightened.
You leaned forward.
Or he did.
Maybe neither of you did.
Maybe the room did it for you.
The space between you became very small.
Too small to be accidental.
Too small to survive much longer.
Then your phone buzzed on the table.
You both flinched.
The screen lit up.
James.
The moment shattered so completely it was almost funny.
You sat back hard.
Tom looked away, jaw tight, one hand dragging over his mouth before dropping to his knee.
“Sorry,” you said immediately.
“Don’t.”
“No, I—”
“You don’t have to apologise.”
You nodded too quickly.
“Right. Yes. I wasn’t. I mean, I was, but not for—”
You stopped.
Tom looked at the wall with intense concentration.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“That you stopped that sentence.”
A laugh slipped out of you, nervous and mortified.
“Yes. Wise.”
“Very.”
Neither of you looked at the phone.
It stopped buzzing.
The room felt too small now.
Too warm.
Too aware of what had almost happened and what both of you were apparently committed to pretending had not.
Tom reached for his glass, then seemed to remember he did not want it.
You picked at the cushion seam.
He tapped his fingers once against his knee.
You noticed.
He noticed you noticing.
Both of you looked away.
“You should eat something,” he said eventually.
His voice was rougher than before.
You nodded, grateful for the ordinary sentence and furious at it.
“Probably.”
“And drink water.”
“You’re doing the dad thing.”
He gave you a look.
“Unfortunately, I am one.”
You smiled faintly.
Then it faded.
Tom stood.
Too abruptly.
“I should go.”
You stood too, because your body apparently had no independent policy.
“You don’t have to.”
He looked at you.
That was a mistake.
Or maybe the only honest thing either of you had done all night.
“I do.”
You nodded.
“Right.”
“You need sleep.”
“Okay.”
“And water.”
“Okay.”
“And food.”
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
“Bossy.”
“Currently restrained.”
You looked at him.
His mouth moved faintly.
Not quite a smile.
At the door, he paused.
You stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across your chest, as if that could keep everything in.
Tom looked at you for a long moment.
“Mute James.”
“I know.”
“And your mother.”
“That one feels harder.”
“I know.”
His voice was soft.
That made you want to cry again.
“Tom.”
He looked at you.
You had no idea what you were going to say.
His name had just slipped out like your body had tried to reach for him and used the wrong part.
The silence stretched.
For one stupid second, you thought he might step back into the flat.
For one even stupider second, you wanted him to.
Instead, he said, almost gently, “Get some sleep.”
You nodded.
“Okay.”
He opened the door.
Then stopped once more.
Without looking back, he said, “For what it’s worth, there is nothing broken about you.”
Your throat closed.
By the time you found a reply, he was gone.
You stood in the hallway long after the door clicked shut.
Then you went back into the living room, picked up your phone, and muted James.
Then your mother.
Then your father.
Your hands were shaking.
On the coffee table, Tom’s wine glass still held a mouthful of red.
You looked at it for too long.
Then you put it in the sink, drank a glass of water, and went to bed without checking your messages again.
For the first time all day, the room was quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not yet.
But quiet.
And somewhere under the grief, under the shame, under the ache of almost, one sentence stayed with you.
There is nothing broken about you.
You turned onto your side, closed your eyes, and let yourself believe it for exactly three seconds.
Then, because three seconds was more than you had managed in years, you counted it as progress.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader,
Monday morning began badly.
Not dramatically badly.
Not cinematic storm through an open window, glass shattering, music swelling badly.
Just your phone vibrating itself half to death against the bedside table while your head felt full of sand and someone warm was asleep beside you.
For a few seconds, you did not know where you were.
Then you remembered.
Your flat.
Your bed.
The green jacket over the back of your chair.
Ivy beside you, asleep on her stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, dark curls half-covering her face.
The room was too bright.
Your mouth tasted like vodka, mint and poor choices.
Your phone stopped vibrating.
Then started again immediately.
You reached for it with one hand, squinting.
Dad.
That woke you properly.
You sat up too fast and immediately regretted existing.
Ivy stirred beside you.
You answered before you had time to decide not to.
“Hello?”
Your father did not say good morning.
“What the hell are you doing?”
You froze.
Your brain, unhelpfully, offered twelve possible crimes in three seconds.
Tom.
James.
The film.
Arthur.
Ivy.
Your mother.
The fact that you had not replied to James.
The fact that you had not replied to your mother.
The fact that you had absolutely no idea where your shoes were.
“What?”
“Do you not care about your career at all?”
You pushed hair out of your face.
“Dad, it is—what time is it?”
“Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act as if you don’t know exactly what I am talking about.”
Ivy shifted beside you, opening one eye.
You looked at her, then away.
“Is this about lunch yesterday?” you asked, voice rough. “Because if so, I’m really not doing round two before coffee.”
Your father’s silence was cold.
“So that is what this was?”
“What what was?”
“You had to go and act out because your mother and I upset you?”
You stared at the wall.
The wall did not help.
“Dad, what are you on about?”
He exhaled sharply.
Not a sigh.
A contained explosion.
“There is a photograph of you outside some gay bar in Soho kissing a woman.”
Everything in you stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Your hand tightened around the phone.
Ivy opened both eyes now.
“What?” you said.
Your father’s voice lowered.
That made it worse.
“Your mother is furious. And upset. Deeply upset. You do this on the anniversary of your sister’s death? As if she is not distraught enough?”
The words hit before you could defend yourself from them.
The anniversary.
The room changed.
Ivy sat up slowly beside you, sheet pulled to her chest, face going careful.
You could hear your pulse.
“I didn’t do anything to Mum.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is that I cannot come into set today and deal with this mess for you.”
You laughed once.
It was not humour.
It was more like your body rejecting the sentence.
“For me?”
“Call your publicist.”
“Dad—”
“Call her and tell her to contain it before it becomes worse.”
“It’s a photograph of me kissing someone outside a bar.”
“It is a bad look for my film.”
There it was.
Not your grief.
Not your shame.
Not your mother’s fury.
His film.
You closed your eyes.
“Right.”
“Do not take that tone with me.”
“What tone should I take?”
“A serious one.”
“I am serious. I am seriously hanging up.”
“Do not be childish.”
“I’ll call my publicist.”
“Good.”
“And Dad?”
There was a pause.
“What?”
You wanted to say several things.
Cruel things.
True things.
Things your sister would have said faster and better and with devastating accuracy.
Instead, you looked at the bright slit of morning between your curtains and said nothing for too long.
Your father filled the silence.
“Just handle it.”
Then he hung up.
You stayed there with the phone against your ear, listening to nothing.
Ivy’s voice came carefully from beside you.
“What’s wrong?”
You lowered the phone.
For a moment, you could not answer.
Then you unlocked it properly.
The notifications loaded in a rush.
Maddy. Five messages.
Jess. Two.
Arthur. Three.
Your publicist. Four missed calls.
James. Fifteen messages.
Your mother.
You did not open your mother’s.
You opened Maddy’s first.
Call me when you wake up.
Do not look at Twitter.
Actually maybe look at Twitter but with breathing.
Are you okay?
Babe, please answer.
Jess’s were shorter.
Well.
Call me before you spiral into a hole.
Arthur’s:
I’m sorry.
This is my fault.
Don’t listen to them.
James’s name sat below all of it like a bruise.
You opened the thread before you could talk yourself out of it.
That was stupid.
You knew it was stupid even while doing it, which was a special kind of self-destruction because at least impulsive stupidity had the dignity of surprise.
James had texted through the night.
At first pleading.
Then wounded.
Then vicious.
So this is who you are now?
Your parents must be so proud.
Actually disgusting.
You throw away an engagement and then get photographed outside a gay club? With a woman?
You need help.
This film has done something to you.
Your stomach turned.
You locked the phone and put it down too hard.
Ivy was fully awake now.
Her face had gone pale.
“Is it bad?”
You looked at her.
She looked younger in the morning. Less composed. Without the jacket, without the bar lighting, without the red lipstick. Just a woman in your bed, staring at you like she had woken inside someone else’s disaster.
“There’s a photograph.”
Ivy’s eyes closed.
“Fuck.”
You rubbed your forehead.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at you quickly.
“No, don’t. Don’t apologise to me.”
“I mean, you didn’t ask to be dragged into whatever this is.”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Something in her face changed.
Not guilt exactly.
Panic.
You saw it before you understood it.
“Ivy?”
She got out of bed too quickly, reaching for her clothes.
“I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m really sorry.”
You sat up straighter.
“Why are you panicking?”
“I need to go.”
“Okay, but why are you panicking?”
She pulled her underwear on, then stood there for a second as if she had forgotten what came next.
“Because I’m engaged.”
The room went silent.
So silent you could hear a car passing in the street below.
Your brain had a strange habit, under stress, of becoming very precise about irrelevant details. Dust on the dresser. The little chip in your nail polish. Ivy’s green jacket hanging beautifully over the chair, as if it had not personally participated in your downfall.
You blinked.
“What?”
Ivy looked at you, horrified with herself.
“I’m engaged.”
“To a man?”
Even as you said it, you knew it was the wrong question.
Her face twisted.
“No. To a woman.”
You stared at her.
“Why would—ugh.”
There were too many words and none of them queued correctly.
Ivy grabbed her bra from the floor.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I know.”
“You’re engaged.”
“Yes.”
“To another woman.”
“Yes.”
“And you went home with me.”
She flinched.
“Yes. Because I thought you were hot–“
You laughed once, because apparently that was your new emotional response to being stabbed.
“Great. Brilliant. That’s very inclusive betrayal. Wonderful.”
Ivy looked like she deserved that and hated that she deserved it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you separated? Open? Poly? On a break? In a complicated modern arrangement I should have been informed about?”
“No.”
Your throat went tight.
Not because you loved her.
You did not.
You barely knew her.
That was not the point.
The point was that every room you walked into lately seemed to have a trapdoor under it.
“Right.”
Ivy’s hands shook as she fastened her jeans.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“That’s generally what people say when they’ve done something they absolutely meant to do for several hours.”
She closed her eyes.
“Fair.”
You stared at her.
She looked back.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then her face crumpled around the edges.
“I’m not a terrible person.”
You felt something cold and mean rise up.
You could have let it.
Instead, you looked away.
Because you did not have enough energy to be cruel to a stranger who had already made herself small.
“I don’t know you well enough to decide that.”
That seemed to hurt her more.
She nodded once.
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that.”
“I have to go.”
“Clearly.”
She grabbed her jacket.
At the bedroom door, she stopped.
“For what it’s worth, last night wasn’t about her. Or about hurting anyone.”
You looked at her.
“That is worth very little at the moment.”
She nodded again.
“Yeah.”
Then she left.
The front door shut softly behind her.
You sat in bed and stared at the space where she had been.
Then your phone started ringing again.
Your publicist.
You answered.
“Clara.”
“Do not speak until I finish,” Clara said.
You closed your eyes.
“Good morning to you too.”
“I mean it. Do not post. Do not like anything. Do not text anyone clever to anyone. No jokes. No sarcasm. Nothing that can be screenshotted.”
“Okay.”
“Are you alone?”
You looked at the bedroom doorway.
“Now? Yes.”
There was a pause.
Clara heard everything in that one word.
That was why she was good at her job.
“We need to meet before you go to studio.”
“I’m not due until midday.”
“Good. Eleven. My office.”
*******
By eleven, you were sitting opposite Clara in her office while she scrolled through her tablet with the expression of a surgeon assessing a wound.
Clara was always immaculate.
Today that felt personally aggressive.
Her hair was slicked back. Her blouse was white. Her lipstick had not moved once, probably out of fear.
She turned the tablet toward you.
There you were.
Outside the bar.
Ivy’s hand at your waist.
Your hand in her hair.
Her mouth on yours.
Arthur blurred in the background eating chips like a criminal accessory.
The headline was not as bad as it could have been.
That did not mean it was good.
RISING STAR’S WILD NIGHT OUT AFTER SPLIT FROM FIANCÉ.
Underneath, smaller text.
Producer’s daughter seen kissing mystery woman outside Soho LGBTQ+ venue hours before emotional family anniversary.
You read it twice because the first time your brain refused to accept the words had been arranged that way by another human being.
“Emotional family anniversary?”
Clara’s mouth flattened.
“They obviously know about your sister.”
You went cold.
“How?”
“Old press. Social media. People are invasive and bored.”
You pressed your fingers to your eyes.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Please don’t. That rug is brand new.”
You looked at her.
She looked back.
“Humour keeps me alive.”
“Same.”
Her expression softened very slightly.
Then she leaned forward.
“Listen to me. The woman is not the problem.”
You lowered your hands.
“Tell my parents.”
“Professionally, the woman is not the problem. The problem is the timing, the break-up narrative, James being loud and already casting himself as the poor heartbroken fiancé, your father being involved in the production, and the film already attracting a lot of attention.”
You looked down.
“Great.”
“We do not issue an apology.”
You looked up quickly.
“No?”
“Absolutely not. You are an adult woman seen kissing another adult woman outside a bar. You did not commit a crime.”
Your shoulders loosened by a millimetre.
“Okay.”
“We can issue a privacy statement if it escalates. For now, we ignore the sexuality angle completely. No denial. No confirmation. No cute empowerment quote. Nothing for people to chew.”
“My dad said it’s a bad look for his film.”
Clara’s eyes sharpened.
“Your father is not your publicist.”
“He is the producer.”
“Professionally, he can speak to the studio through production channels. Personally, he can learn emotional regulation like everyone else.”
You stared at her.
“Can I quote you?”
“Absolutely not.”
You almost smiled.
Then your phone lit up on the table.
Mum.
You did not touch it.
Clara noticed.
“You need to mute your family today.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“It’s the anniversary.”
Clara’s face changed.
She was not unkind.
She was just usually too efficient to let kindness take up room.
But then she looked at you, properly, and her voice lowered.
“I’m sorry.”
You swallowed.
“Thanks.”
“Mute them for a few hours. Not forever. Go to work. Try to do your job and let me deal with studio communications.”
“My father will hate that.”
“That sounds like a him problem.”
You looked at her.
“You’re very frightening.”
“Yes. That’s why you pay me.”
********
By the time you reached the studio, the day already felt twelve hours old.
You kept your sunglasses on until you were inside.
That did not help.
Everyone knew.
Of course everyone knew.
The worst part was not people looking.
It was people trying not to look.
A crew member from lighting gave you a sympathetic smile so intense you nearly turned around and walked into traffic.
Natalia hugged you without asking too many questions, which almost undid you.
Tessa asked if you wanted tea.
You said yes, then forgot to drink it.
By the time you reached your trailer, Sven was leaning against the steps in a coat too expensive for the environment, smoking despite several signs suggesting he should not.
He looked up as you approached.
His expression was unreadable.
That annoyed you immediately.
“Don’t,” you said.
Sven exhaled smoke.
“I haven’t said anything.”
You tried to step past him.
He did not move.
“But let me say this, one does love a scandal around filming.”
You looked at him.
“Sven.”
“I’m not saying I love this particular one.”
His eyes moved over your face.
Something about his expression shifted.
Irritation, yes.
But not at you.
“This film is becoming exhausting.”
You huffed.
“Sorry my personal humiliation has inconvenienced your viewing experience.”
Sven’s mouth twitched, but the smile did not land.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He looked towards the lot.
People were pretending not to look at both of you now, which was almost impressive.
“I meant people are circling. Paparazzi. Gossip sites. Your ex. Possibly your family, if I’m being ungenerous, which I enjoy being.”
You went still.
“You already knew.”
“I own a phone.”
“Congratulations.”
His face hardened slightly.
“That bar isn’t usually a paparazzi hotspot,” Sven said. “They only come looking when someone tips them off.”
The thought made your stomach drop.
“You think someone tipped them off?”
Sven’s expression did not change.
“I think it was very convenient.”
You thought of James’s fifteen messages.
Your father’s anger.
Your mother’s shame.
Arthur in the background, blurred with chips and grief.
You looked away. Embarrassed.
Sven softened.
Then his gaze moved past your shoulder.
Tom was coming across the lot.
Your chest tightened before your mind could stop it.
Sven noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He gave you one last look.
“Breathe before you go in there.”
“I am breathing.”
“Technically.”
Then he pushed away from the trailer and walked off, leaving you with your hand on the railing and Tom approaching like another problem you were too tired to solve.
Tom stopped at the bottom of the steps.
He looked different in daylight after a scandal.
Less like the man from the gallery.
More like the man you had to survive a workday with.
His eyes moved over your face.
Not obviously.
But carefully.
“You okay?”
You gave him a flat look.
“No.”
He nodded once.
No performance.
No shock.
Just acceptance.
That nearly made it worse.
“Right.”
You turned to go into the trailer.
Tom stayed where he was.
“I’m sorry.”
You paused.
“For what?”
“That this happened.”
You stared at him for a moment.
Then you laughed.
“That is such a safe sentence.”
His mouth tightened faintly.
“I meant it.”
“I know.”
That came out softer than you intended.
He looked up at you.
Something moved between you.
Then he looked away.
“You need to be careful.”
The softness vanished.
“Don’t lecture me.”
Tom’s head lifted.
“I wasn’t—”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was going to say Kurt is on a rampage today.”
You stopped.
“What?”
“Your father called in this morning.”
Your stomach tightened.
Tom’s voice stayed careful.
“So when I said be careful, I meant around Kurt. He’s already angry, and not at you exactly, but he’s under pressure, and you’re the easiest person for everyone to look at right now.”
You looked away, jaw tight.
“Well, I behaved like an idiot. I probably deserve to be shredded by Kurt.”
Tom’s expression changed.
“Barely.”
You looked back at him.
“Barely?”
“You just kissed a woman outside a bar. That’s all. It’s hardly a big deal.”
You hated how much that helped.
So you rejected it immediately.
“My parents and publicist think otherwise.”
Tom’s expression shifted.
“Ah.”
“Ah?”
“They’ll recover.”
You looked at him.
“That is easy to say when they’re not your parents.”
Something passed over his face.
Quiet.
Old.
“You’d be surprised.”
Before you could answer, Marie appeared near the trailer, clipboard tucked under one arm, expression carefully neutral.
“We’re ready for blocking in ten.”
You nodded.
“Okay.”
Tom stepped back.
“See you in there.”
You went into the trailer and shut the door.
Then you stood in the middle of it, breathing too fast, surrounded by clothes that were not yours and skin that did not feel entirely yours either.
********
For the next six hours, you held yourself together out of pure spite.
That was the thing no one gave you enough credit for.
You could be falling apart internally and still hit your mark.
You could have your mother’s unread essay sitting like a weapon in your phone and still remember a line.
You could have James calling you disgusting, your father calling you a liability, your sister’s death sitting in your chest like a stone, and still let Tessa adjust your collar without flinching.
The day was mostly not intimate.
Thank God.
A hallway scene.
A confrontation with a secondary character.
Two reaction shots.
A short moment at a window where you had to look haunted, which required almost no acting at all.
Tom was professional.
So were you.
Too professional, maybe.
The kind of professional that made Marie watch you both with narrowed eyes.
You did not joke.
Tom did not tease.
When your hands brushed accidentally while moving around a prop desk, you both apologised at the same time and then looked in opposite directions.
Kurt noticed.
Of course he did.
But Kurt also had a schedule and the deeply haunted face of a man whose lead actress had been photographed kissing a woman outside a gay bar while the press still thought her fiancé was heartbroken at home.
He did not pry.
Bless him.
You made it until wrap.
Then you made it down the hallway.
Then around the corner.
Then past wardrobe.
Then into the narrow gap behind one of the unused set walls, where old flats leaned against plaster and cables coiled like sleeping snakes.
And then you stopped.
Your eyes blurred so suddenly it frightened you.
Your body did that awful thing bodies did when they realised the danger had passed enough to collapse.
You pressed a hand over your mouth.
“No,” you whispered to yourself. “No, not here.”
Which, obviously, made it happen harder.
You bent forward slightly, one hand braced against the wall, breathing in quick, ugly bursts.
Not crying neatly.
Not in a way that would look good under soft lighting.
Just breaking.
Quietly.
Furiously.
In a corner full of dust and equipment.
You did not hear Tom at first.
You only realised someone was there when his voice came low behind you.
“Hey.”
You straightened too fast and wiped your face.
“I’m fine.”
He did not move closer.
That was the only reason you did not bolt.
“You’re not.”
“Great observation. Thank you.”
His face was careful.
Not pitying.
You would have hated pity.
“Talk to me.”
You laughed, and it turned into something too close to a sob.
“I just need a fucking drink after this day.”
Tom nodded.
“Okay.”
You looked at him.
“Okay?”
“We’ll get a drink.”
You blinked.
“We?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Y/N, you’re not okay.”
“Astute.”
“And you’re not leaving alone like this.”
You stared at him.
“Don’t boss me around.”
He immediately lifted both hands, backing off half a step.
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“You were.”
“Maybe a little. Badly. Sorry.”
That disarmed you.
You hated that too.
You wiped your cheek with the heel of your hand.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“Stop being nice to me. It makes everything worse.”
His mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
Not quite.
“Okay.”
You breathed out shakily.
“I want to go home.”
“I thought you wanted to go for a drink.”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I can have a drink at home.”
Tom studied you for a second.
“Hmm. Okay.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Hmm?”
“It means I’m thinking.”
“That’s never reassuring.”
This time he did smile, faintly.
“Want company?”
“No.”
He nodded.
You hated that he accepted it.
You hated that he did not push.
You hated that your mouth kept going without your permission.
“Yes.”
Tom looked at you again.
“Yes?”
“Don’t make me say it again. My brain is currently a browser with ninety-seven tabs open, and one of them is playing grief music, and I can’t find which one.”
His expression softened.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking briefly away, as if the sentence had landed somewhere familiar.
“That sounds loud,” he said.
You gave a humourless little laugh.
“It is.”
Tom nodded once.
“My brain does that sometimes.”
You looked at him.
“Plays grief music?”
“Opens ninety-seven tabs.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
“And do you find the one making noise?”
“Rarely.”
“Comforting.”
“I didn’t say I was good at it.”
He came a little closer then, not quite sitting beside you yet, but no longer keeping the careful distance from before.
His hand went through his hair again.
Then to the back of his neck.
Then into his pocket.
Then out of it.
You noticed because you noticed everything when you were overstimulated, which was deeply unfair and rarely useful.
Tom seemed to realise what he was doing and stilled his hand against his thigh.
“So,” he said, “what’s currently open in the other tabs you’ve identified?”
You looked at him.
“What?”
“The ninety-seven tabs.”
“Oh.”
“We’ll ignore the one playing music for a moment.”
Your mouth twitched.
“Very generous.”
“I’m nothing if not selective.”
You let out a tired breath and leaned back against the wall.
“There’s a pop-up about career ruin.”
Tom nodded, as if this were entirely reasonable.
“Naturally.”
“And one about my mother’s essay.”
“Less useful.”
“One about bisexual shame.”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
You looked away before you could see too much of it.
“And I think one is just a hamster in a tiny hat. Completely irrelevant but persistent.”
For a second, Tom said nothing.
Then he looked down.
His mouth moved.
“A tiny hat?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of hat?”
You stared at him.
“That is not the point.”
“I’m trying to understand the tab.”
“A little cowboy hat. Obviously.”
Tom blinked.
Then, unexpectedly, laughed.
Small.
Gentle.
You pointed at him.
“Do not laugh at the hamster.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
You rubbed your forehead.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Talking like my thoughts are an escaped classroom.”
“They are easier to follow than some conversations I’ve had today with Tessa about Tik Tok.”
You looked at him.
He held your gaze.
Then asked, “Are your friends around?”
You shook your head.
“Maddy is in New York.”
“Right.”
“Jess is—I don’t know. Milan? Possibly Paris. I lost track.”
Tom’s eyebrows lifted.
“And Arthur…”
You stopped.
Tom waited.
You looked down.
“I don’t want to see him today.”
“Because of the photograph?”
“Because he’ll blame himself. And then I’ll have to comfort him. And then he’ll make jokes. And then it’s our sister’s anniversary, so every joke will have blood underneath it.”
Tom said nothing.
For once, no clever answer arrived.
You appreciated that more than you wanted to.
He nodded once.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
You laughed weakly.
“You say okay a lot.”
“I’m trying not to say the wrong thing.”
That landed somewhere soft.
You looked away first.
Tom stepped aside, giving you room to leave the corner.
“Come on, then.”
“Where?”
“We’ll get an Uber together. Go to yours. Have a drink. Maybe eat something terrible. Then see where that gets you.”
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Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader,
Tom’s POV
Sunday was Ellie’s day.
Tom had learned, over the years, that days with Ellie were best when he did not try too hard to make them meaningful.
The second he made something meaningful, she noticed and immediately treated him like an old Victorian uncle who had written “quality time” in a notebook.
So he did not say anything about how much he had been looking forward to it.
He just picked her up late morning, tolerated the way she inspected his sunglasses like they were evidence of a crime, bought her a hot chocolate she claimed she did not want and then drank entirely, and took her to the cinema.
The film was ridiculous.
Ellie loved it.
She sat beside him in the dark with one knee tucked under her, laughing too loudly at jokes she would later pretend were beneath her, and Tom spent more time watching her than the screen.
Not obviously.
He knew better than to be caught.
But sometimes, in the flickering dark, she looked younger than almost sixteen. Sometimes she looked exactly five, sticky-fingered and solemn, asking him whether monsters got lonely. Sometimes she looked older than he was prepared for, hair falling into her face, phone lighting her palm, already half-turned towards a world he could not follow her into.
Afterward, they came out into grey afternoon light.
Ellie immediately put her hood up.
“That was so stupid,” she said.
“You laughed for two hours.”
“Well, there were some objectively funny scenes in that movie. It doesn’t mean the film was good.”
“Right.”
“And the romance subplot was terrible.”
“You’re becoming very discerning.”
“I’ve always been discerning. You’re only just noticing.”
Tom smiled despite himself.
They walked along the pavement, Ellie drifting half a step ahead of him in that very deliberate teenage way that meant she wanted to be seen with him but not too closely.
He had almost relaxed.
That was his mistake.
“So,” Ellie said.
Tom looked at her.
“No.”
She stopped walking.
“I haven’t even asked you yet.”
“You said ‘so.’ Nothing good has ever followed ‘so.’”
Ellie rolled her eyes and started walking again.
“There’s a party next Friday.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
“You don’t know whose party.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You are literally unbearable.”
“I know.”
“It’s at Annabelle’s.”
Tom slowed.
Then stopped.
Ellie kept walking for two paces before realising he was no longer beside her.
She turned around.
“What?”
“Annabelle McLean?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Tom said.
Her face changed at once.
A shutter came down.
“Oh my God.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what the party is about.”
“I don’t. But I can be quite certain that it involves alcohol and cigarettes. So, no.”
“Dad!”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is a reason. It’s just not one you like.”
Ellie made a sound of pure suffering and looked up at the sky as though requesting intervention.
“Dad, I am almost sixteen.”
“Yes. I am aware. I have been there for the entire build-up.”
“And you were drinking, smoking and had girlfriends when you were sixteen.”
“That is not the argument you think it is.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.”
“I am comfortable with that.”
“Also, it’s not even about a boy anyway, because I know that’s what you are really worried about.”
Tom looked at her.
Ellie looked away too quickly.
His eyes narrowed.
“Oh isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Okay, then who will be there?”
“People.”
“Which people?”
“God.”
“Ellie.”
She folded her arms.
“Daniel.”
Tom did not answer immediately.
Ellie saw that she had lost before he even spoke.
“Especially no then,” he said.
Her mouth dropped open.
“You are actually insane.”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. You heard one name and decided I’m going to be locked in a tower.”
“I’m not locking you in a tower.”
“That’s your vibe.”
“My vibe?”
“Yes.”
“My vibe is that Daniel and Annabelle are not safe people for you to be around unsupervised.”
Ellie laughed, sharp and furious.
“Oh my God. They’re not drug dealers.”
“I didn’t say they were.”
“You’re acting like they’re criminals.”
Tom’s expression shifted.
Only slightly.
Enough.
Ellie saw it and flushed.
“That was ages ago.”
“It was six months ago.”
“It was one thing.”
“You stole something from a shop because Daniel dared you to.”
“It was lip gloss.”
“It was theft.”
“It was stupid.”
“Yes. It was.”
“And I learned.”
“You learned because the police were called.”
Ellie’s eyes flashed.
“That was not my fault.”
Tom went still.
“No,” he said slowly. “That is exactly the part that was your fault.”
Her face tightened.
“I didn’t know they’d call the police.”
“You knew taking it was wrong.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You never know. You just stand there doing your calm disappointed voice, like that’s better than shouting.”
Tom inhaled.
He felt tired suddenly.
Not angry.
Tired in the deep, parental place no one warned you about, where fear and love turned into the same thing and came out sounding like rules.
“I’m not saying you can’t go to parties,” he said.
“You never let me do anything.”
“That is wildly untrue.”
“You let me do things you choose.”
“Yes. That is often how parenting works.”
She glared at him.
“You’re more annoying than Mum.”
Tom nodded once.
That one hit, but he did not show it.
“Probably.”
Ellie’s anger wavered for half a second.
Then she doubled down.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that you get to decide everything.”
“I know.”
“You don’t trust me.”
Tom looked at her properly then.
People moved around them on the pavement. A child cried near the bus stop. Someone laughed outside a café. The whole city continued, indifferent to the fact that Tom was standing in front of his daughter and trying not to lose her in increments.
“I do trust you,” he said.
Ellie scoffed.
“I don’t trust them.”
“That’s so convenient.”
“It isn’t convenient at all.”
“Daniel isn’t even that bad.”
“Ellie.”
“He’s not.”
“He dared you to steal something, then walked away when you got caught.”
Her face went tight.
Tom’s voice lowered.
“I remember coming to get you. I remember you pretending not to cry because you were angry and embarrassed and frightened. I remember you saying you didn’t know why you’d done it. And I remember Daniel not answering your texts for two days afterward.”
She looked down.
For one second, she looked twelve.
Then she looked sixteen again.
“I can make my own mistakes.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “You can. But I don’t have to drive you to them.”
Her eyes lifted.
“That’s such a dad thing to say.”
“I am a dad.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Yes. Tragic for both of us.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Then she turned and started walking again.
Tom followed her.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
At the corner, Ellie said, without looking at him, “Can I at least go somewhere else Friday?”
“Depends where.”
“You are exhausting.”
“You may submit your request in writing.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I kind of do.”
“That’s allowed.”
She glanced sideways at him.
Something in her face softened despite her best efforts.
Then her phone buzzed, and she looked away.
Tom let her.
He had learned that sometimes the closest he could get to good parenting was not reaching for a moment when she had not offered it.
*******
That night, after dropping Ellie back, Tom sat in his kitchen with his coat still on and did not turn the lights on.
His house was too quiet.
It always was after Ellie left.
The silence had a particular shape then. Her absence did not feel like peace. It felt like someone had paused music halfway through a room.
He checked his phone.
A message from Layla sat there from earlier.
Still on for tonight? x
Tom stared at it.
He had forgotten.
No.
That was not true.
He had remembered and kept putting the remembering somewhere else.
Ellie’s face came back to him. The anger. The hurt underneath it. The way she had said you don’t trust me as if trust were a gate he was keeping locked instead of a thing he was trying, badly, to protect from people who treated her like entertainment.
Then, without wanting it to, his mind turned.
To you.
To you in the gallery, sitting beside him because your heels hurt and then telling him too much because he had asked.
To your face when Frank had mentioned New York.
To your voice saying, Why am I telling you all this?
To the way he had wanted, idiotically, to say: because I want to know.
Tom rubbed both hands over his face.
Then he picked up his phone.
Sorry. Can’t tonight. Ellie stuff. Another time.
He looked at the message for a moment before sending it.
Another time sounded crueler than he meant it to.
It also sounded exactly as vague as he intended.
He sent it anyway.
Layla did not reply.
Tom placed the phone face down on the table, then turned it face up again twenty seconds later.
Nothing.
He stood, took his cigarettes from his coat, then remembered Ellie saying, You’re more annoying than Mum, and put them back with unnecessary force.
Then he laughed once under his breath.
At himself.
At the universe.
At the fact that being responsible in one corner of his life did absolutely nothing to stop him being a coward in another.
YOUR POV
Earlier that day, across London, you were discovering that family lunch had become a trial without anyone having the decency to warn you.
Your mother had set the table as if tablecloths could civilise emotional violence.
White plates. Linen napkins. Good glasses. Flowers in the centre, too tall, so everyone kept having to peer around them to dislike one another properly.
Arthur sat opposite you, already enjoying himself too much.
Your father sat at the head of the table.
Quiet.
That was never good.
Your mother was not quiet.
That was worse.
“I just don’t understand why I had to hear it from James,” she said.
You put your fork down.
Arthur’s eyes flicked up.
There it was.
You had made it eleven minutes.
A personal best, possibly.
“Mum.”
“No, I’m sorry, but I don’t. Your fiancé calls me in pieces, saying he’s been kicked out, saying you won’t speak to him, saying this whole thing has become impossible, and I’m supposed to just sit there and not be worried?”
“He called you?”
“Of course he called me. He was devastated.”
You stared at her.
“He lied to my father and tried to get my co-star disciplined because he was jealous.”
Your mother’s mouth tightened.
“He was protecting you.”
You actually laughed.
It came out once, harsh and wrong.
Arthur leaned back in his chair.
Your father looked at his plate.
“Protecting me from what?”
Your mother hesitated.
“From being taken advantage of.”
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t take that tone.”
“No, seriously, from what? From my job? From a man I had to kiss on a set? From the part I got?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
Your mother looked towards your father.
“Edward.”
Your father took a breath.
“It’s work,” he said.
Your mother turned on him.
“That is not enough.”
“It is an intimacy-led production with contracts, coordinators and oversight.”
You looked at him, startled despite yourself.
It was the most useful thing he had said in weeks.
Then he ruined it by adding, “That does not mean James was entirely unreasonable to be concerned.”
You went very still.
Arthur muttered, “Oh, brilliant.”
Your mother ignored him.
“There has been tension since this film started.”
“Because James created it.”
“Because you have changed.”
You blinked.
“I ended an engagement because he behaved appallingly.”
“And you did not tell us.”
“You believed him before asking me.”
Your father looked up then.
Not sharply.
Worse.
Carefully.
“I heard about it from Arthur first.”
You turned to Arthur.
Arthur lifted both hands.
“I said James was gone. I did not provide a PowerPoint.”
Your mother frowned.
“He said you were emotional.”
“I was emotional.”
“He said this actor had been inappropriate with you.”
“He lied.”
“He said there had been issues on set.”
“He caused them.”
“He said you were confused.”
You pushed your chair back slightly.
Arthur’s expression lost some of its amusement.
Your father said your name quietly.
“No,” you said. “No, don’t do that. Don’t use the calm voice now. You sat in a meeting with Kurt and Marie and Tom because James told you a story, and you didn’t come to me first. You didn’t even try.”
Your father’s jaw tightened.
“I was trying to handle a professional concern discreetly.”
“You were handling me.”
“That is not fair.”
“It is completely fair.”
Your mother put her glass down too hard.
“This movie is tearing this family apart.”
Arthur laughed.
Everyone looked at him.
He shrugged.
“Sorry. I just think we should reserve ‘tearing this family apart’ for illness, death, war. Not a film with some intimate scenes.”
Your mother’s face hardened.
“You think this is funny because it isn’t your life.”
Arthur’s smile disappeared.
“Oh, trust me, Mum. You have made my life hilarious for years.”
Your father said, “Arthur.”
Arthur looked at him.
“What?”
The room went still.
Old still.
Childhood still.
The kind of stillness that carried years under it.
Your mother turned back to you because you were easier.
“I am not comfortable with it,” she said.
“With what?”
“With you doing those scenes with a forty-year-old man.”
You felt heat crawl up your neck.
Arthur’s eyebrows rose.
Your father looked away again.
Your mother continued, encouraged by her own panic.
“Especially now. Especially with everything James said. I know you insist nothing happened, but you must understand how it looks.”
“How what looks?”
“I am just saying.”
“Saying what exactly?”
“That perhaps this film should be cancelled.”
Your father’s head snapped up then.
“No one is cancelling the film.”
“Edward.”
“No,” he said. “That is not a serious suggestion.”
Your mother looked betrayed.
“It might be best if she came off it.”
Your head snapped up.
“No.”
“It may be healthier.”
“No.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I am listening. You want me to leave the first real major film role I’ve had because my ex lied and you feel uncomfortable.”
Your mother’s face flushed.
“That is a very simplistic way of putting it.”
“It’s an accurate way of putting it.”
“You always do this.”
“What?”
“Make everyone else the villain.”
Something in you went cold.
Arthur sat forward.
“Careful,” he said.
Your mother looked at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
Arthur’s voice was soft, dangerous.
“I said careful.”
You stood.
Your chair scraped loudly against the floor.
Your father said your name again.
You hated how quickly part of you still wanted to obey that voice.
“I can’t do this.”
Your mother stood too.
“We are trying to help you.”
“No, you’re trying to make me small enough to manage.”
Her face changed.
For half a second, she looked hurt.
Then she looked offended, which was easier for everyone.
You picked up your bag.
Arthur started to rise.
Your father said, “Sit down.”
Arthur did not sit.
Your mother’s mouth tightened.
“So you’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
“Very mature.”
You laughed again, but this time there was nothing sharp in it.
Only exhaustion.
“God, this is ridiculous.”
You walked out before anyone could make you cry.
Arthur found you outside five minutes later.
You were standing by the low brick wall at the edge of your parents’ front garden, arms folded tightly across your chest, staring at a hydrangea bush as if it had personally betrayed you.
Arthur shut the front door behind him.
“Well,” he said. “That was nourishing.”
You did not look at him.
“Don’t.”
“I was going to say emotionally nutritious.”
“Arthur.”
He came to stand beside you.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The street was quiet in that Sunday afternoon way that made other people’s lives seem smugly intact. Somewhere, a lawnmower started. A dog barked twice, then gave up.
Arthur leaned his hip against the wall.
“Mum is wrong.”
You swallowed.
“I know.”
“Dad is a coward.”
You glanced at him.
“He defended the film.”
“He defended the film because it would be expensive not to. He did not defend you properly.”
Your mouth tightened.
Arthur watched you.
“You know that, right?”
“I don’t want to talk about them.”
“Good. I was hoping to talk about something far worse.”
You looked at him.
“No.”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Tom.”
You groaned and started walking.
Arthur followed at once.
“I said no.”
“And I ignored you because I am an artist of conversation.”
“You are an unemployed menace.”
“I have employment. Emotionally harassing you is a calling.”
You kept walking down the pavement.
Arthur fell into step beside you.
“So. The gallery.”
“No.”
“The photograph.”
“No.”
“The Tolstoy.”
“I will push you into traffic.”
“There is no traffic.”
“I’ll wait.”
Arthur smiled.
“You are both into each other.”
You stopped walking.
Arthur stopped too.
Your face was hot.
“We are not.”
“Fine. Then why are you being strange?”
“I’m not.”
He gave you a look.
You lasted approximately three seconds.
“Okay, maybe I am, but he is not into me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“He’s my co-star.”
“And?”
“He’s sixteen years older.”
“Yes.”
“My father is producing the film.”
“Tragic.”
“I have just ended an engagement.”
“A terrible engagement.”
“I have to work with him.”
“Yes.”
“He thought I was a nepo baby.”
“He appears to have recovered from that.”
“He is emotionally unavailable.”
Arthur’s mouth twitched.
“That one I’ll allow.”
“And he clearly only wants sex.”
Arthur’s expression sharpened with interest.
“Does he?”
You regretted it immediately.
“No.”
“You just said he did.”
“I mean—he doesn’t want anything serious.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m not an idiot.”
“That has never stopped anyone from being wrong.”
You looked at him.
Arthur held up a hand.
“Fine. Explain.”
You started walking again, faster this time.
Arthur matched you.
“He has women,” you said.
Arthur blinked.
“Women?”
“Yes.”
“As in plural?”
“Don’t sound so delighted.”
“I’m not delighted. I’m gathering evidence.”
“He has this rota.”
Arthur stopped dead.
You closed your eyes.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“A rota?”
“I shouldn’t have said rota.”
“No, no. I think rota is a word that deserves respect.”
“It’s not an actual rota.”
“You disappoint me.”
“It’s just—there are people. There’s the coffee shop girl.”
Arthur’s face changed.
“The coffee shop girl?”
You winced.
“Yes. She works near the studio and is even younger than me.”
“Interesting. Continue.”
“And Anya, whatever her name is.”
“The model?”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
Arthur stared at you.
“You have become very informed.”
“I don’t want to be informed.”
“And yet.”
“And possibly a man.”
Arthur’s eyebrows went up.
“Excuse me?”
You waved a hand.
“Nothing. Ignore that.”
“I will absolutely not ignore that.”
“Arthur.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said possibly a man.”
“I said possibly because I don’t know.”
“But you have a suspect?”
You looked away.
Arthur’s eyes widened.
“Oh my God.”
“Stop.”
“Frank Connor?”
You said nothing.
Arthur pointed at your face.
“That is a yes.”
“It is not a yes.”
“It is at least a maybe.”
“Maybe.”
Arthur stared at you.
Then he laughed once, not unkindly.
“Well.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing your face.”
“This is just my face.”
“It’s your interested face.”
“I am extremely interested.”
You turned on him.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Arthur’s expression softened a fraction.
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“If it were true, would it bother you?”
You frowned.
“Why would it?”
“I’m asking.”
“Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“It makes no difference.”
Arthur watched you carefully.
“A man doesn’t bother you more than a woman?”
“No,” you said at once. “Of course not.”
“Okay. So it’s not about that then.”
“No. It’s about the fact that he is sleeping around a lot.”
Arthur nodded.
You kept walking, eyes fixed ahead.
“And with whom is irrelevant.”
“Very true.”
You shook your head almost immediately, irritated with yourself.
“But it shouldn’t even bother me that he is sleeping around. He’s got every right to. He’s single.”
Arthur’s voice gentled.
“Maybe he is. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel weird about it.”
Your throat tightened.
“He’s not my anything.”
“I know.”
“So yes, it does mean I have no right to feel weird.”
“That’s not how feelings work.”
“It should be.”
“Probably. Would make life less humiliating.”
You gave him a look.
Arthur’s mouth twitched, but he did not smile properly.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You don’t have a claim on him. Fine. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to realise someone you want is available to everyone except, apparently, you.”
The words landed too cleanly.
You looked away.
“I don’t want him.”
Arthur only looked at you.
“I don’t.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t have a claim.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want one.”
Arthur gave you a look.
You pointed at him.
“Do not.”
He lowered his hand slowly.
“I said nothing.”
“You breathed judgementally.”
“That’s just how we breathe.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
It came out cracked and small, but it was a laugh.
Arthur smiled at you.
Then you said the thing before you could stop yourself.
“Okay. Maybe I do want him a little bit, but I couldn’t ever do just sex.”
Arthur went still.
You stared at the pavement.
“Not with him.”
Arthur went still.
You stared down at the pavement.
His voice was much softer when he spoke again.
“Because of New York?”
You nodded once.
“He already fucked with my head after New York. And that was one night. One stupid, anonymous night where I didn’t even know his surname and somehow he still managed to ruin me for months.”
Arthur did not make a joke.
That was how you knew he was worried.
You swallowed and kept going because stopping now would make it worse.
“And now I already have to stand in front of him and pretend I can kiss him like it’s choreography. Like it’s not—”
You broke off.
Arthur waited.
You shook your head.
“Like it’s not already in me somewhere.”
The words embarrassed you the second they were out.
Arthur looked down the street.
Then back at you.
For one terrifying second, you thought he might say something kind.
Instead, he sighed dramatically.
“Right. Well, unless you are actually going to make a move on that co-star of yours, we need to get your mind off him, because this is frankly becoming depressing.”
You blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I just confessed emotional devastation to you.”
“Yes, and it was very moving. Ten out of ten. Devastating use of pavement. Now we move on.”
You stared at him.
“Move on?”
“Temporarily. I am not expecting emotional growth from you. That would be ambitious.”
“Arthur.”
“I’m taking you out tonight.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow is going to be a hard day.”
That quietened him.
Only slightly.
But enough that you wished you had not said it.
Tomorrow.
The date sat between you, heavy and familiar.
The anniversary of your sister’s death had a way of arriving before the calendar did. You felt it in your body first. In your sleep. In the strange pressure behind your ribs. In your mother’s brittle table setting. In your father’s careful silence. In Arthur’s jokes arriving sharper and faster because grief made him frantic if it had nowhere to go.
Arthur looked away.
For a moment, the street changed around you.
It was not Sunday anymore.
It was every year before this one.
It was every version of you standing in some ordinary place trying to survive an extraordinary absence.
Then Arthur looked back at you, and his expression was gentler than his voice.
“Yes,” he said. “It is. Which is exactly why I’m taking you out tonight.”
You shook your head.
“I don’t want to go out.”
“You never want to go out until you’re out.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is extremely true.”
“I have work tomorrow.”
“You said you don’t have to be at the studio until midday.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“When did I say that?”
“At lunch. In between Mum implying Tom Sturridge had personally destroyed the family unit and Dad pretending to be furniture.”
Despite yourself, your mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
Arthur saw it and pressed his advantage.
“Also, and I say this with deep spiritual certainty, our dear sister would have approved of you having some fun if she were still alive.”
Your throat tightened.
“Don’t.”
“She would.”
You looked away.
Arthur’s voice softened further.
“She would have hated this.”
You swallowed.
“What?”
“You standing on a pavement punishing yourself because you want someone inappropriate and your ex is a manipulative little worm and Mum has decided anxiety is a personality.”
A laugh escaped you.
Small.
Wet at the edges.
Arthur smiled faintly.
“She would have said, ‘Jesus Christ, go dance badly and kiss someone pretty.’”
You wiped at your cheek quickly, annoyed to find tears there.
“She would not have said that.”
“She absolutely would have said that.”
You both stood there in the quiet after that.
Then Arthur held out his hand.
“Come on.”
You looked at it.
“I’m not going partying with you.”
“You are.”
“I’m too tired.”
“Perfect. Lower standards.”
“I hate you.”
“You keep saying that to people today. It’s becoming less impactful.”
You stared at him.
Then, because grief was already waiting for you at home and Tom was waiting somewhere in your head and James was waiting in your phone and your parents were waiting in the shape of every room you had ever had to become smaller inside, you took Arthur’s hand.
“One drink.”
Arthur smiled.
“Obviously not one drink.”
“Arthur.”
“Fine. One emotional lie at a time.”
By nine that night, you were in a queer bar in Soho with a vodka soda in your hand, Arthur beside you, and a drag queen on stage singing a version of Total Eclipse of the Heart so aggressive it felt legally binding.
The bar was narrow and dark and warm, lit in pink and blue and gold, the kind of place where everyone looked either beautiful, heartbroken, or very committed to eyeliner.
Arthur looked instantly at home.
You looked like someone who had been removed from a family argument and placed in theatre lighting.
“This is a terrible idea,” you said.
Arthur leaned close to be heard over the music.
“Most good things are.”
You took a drink. Then gave him a look.
Arthur looked innocent and asked “what?”
“You’re scanning the room.”
“I am observing the room.”
“You are hunting.”
“For vibes.”
“For women.”
Arthur grinned.
“Well, yes. Vibes with boobs.”
You groaned.
“Stop.”
“What?”
He nodded subtly towards the bar then.
“She looks pretty.”
You did not look.
“No.”
“Or her.”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“I am not your sad little project.”
“You are absolutely my sad little project.”
“Arthur.”
“Fine. I’ll stop.”
He lasted eleven seconds.
“Green jacket.”
You closed your eyes.
“I hate you.”
“You’ve said.”
You opened your eyes despite yourself.
Green jacket was at the bar, laughing at something the bartender had said.
She was beautiful in a way that did not seem engineered. Dark curls pinned messily at the back of her head. Silver hoops. A mouth painted deep red. Strong nose. Bare arms. A tattoo of a moth near her left elbow. She looked like she knew how to fix a sink and break a heart and would probably be very polite about both.
Arthur saw you looking and made a triumphant little sound.
“No,” you said immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a sound.”
“It was a supportive sound.”
“It was a pimp sound.”
Arthur choked on his drink.
“A pimp sound?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really, really don’t.”
Before you could answer, Green Jacket looked over.
Right at you.
You froze.
She smiled.
Not too much.
Just enough.
Your stomach did something unexpected and deeply inconvenient.
Arthur leaned in.
“Oh, excellent.”
“Shut up.”
“She’s coming over.”
“No, she isn’t.”
She was.
You looked at Arthur in panic.
“Do something normal.”
“I’ve never done anything normal in my life.”
Green Jacket arrived beside you with her drink in hand and a smile still sitting at one corner of her mouth.
“Hi.”
You became aware, all at once, of your hands, your face, your posture, your entire human body and every poor decision it had ever made.
“Hi.”
Arthur looked delighted.
Green Jacket glanced at him, then back at you.
“I’m Ivy.”
“I’m—”
You said your name.
Arthur immediately put out a hand.
“Arthur. Brother. Not boyfriend. Very gay. Deeply supportive.”
You closed your eyes.
“Arthur.”
Ivy laughed.
It was warm.
Low.
Not performative.
“Good to know.”
You opened your eyes.
“Sorry. He’s been like this since birth.”
“That must have been hard on your parents.”
Arthur gasped.
“I like her.”
You looked at him.
“You can leave now.”
“Rude.”
Ivy’s smile tilted.
“Is he actually leaving, or is this a sibling performance?”
“Oh, I am leaving,” Arthur said before he kissed your cheek, too loud and theatrical.
“Live a little,” he then whispered into your ear a little too loudly and you immediately wanted to fall through the floor.
“Don’t say things like that.”
He pointed at Ivy.
“She’s anxious, clever and currently pretending she doesn’t want to be flirted with. Good luck.”
“Arthur.”
But he was already gone, vanishing towards a cluster of men near the stage like a Victorian widow entering a fog.
Ivy watched him go.
“He seems fun.”
“He is unbearable.”
“Often the same thing.”
You looked at her.
She smiled again, softer now.
“Do you want me to go away too?”
The question was gentle enough that it unsettled you.
You could have said yes.
You almost did.
Then you thought of tomorrow.
Of your sister.
Of her laughing at you from some remembered doorway, rolling her eyes because you were always so determined to turn wanting anything into a moral inquiry.
You took a breath.
“No.”
Ivy’s expression warmed.
“Good.”
For a while, you talked at the edge of the bar.
Nothing important at first.
That was the relief of it.
She worked in costume restoration. She hated coriander. She had once been dumped by a woman during a pub quiz and still won the quiz out of spite. She had grown up in Manchester, moved to London at nineteen, and owned a cat named Shirley who apparently had the personality of a retired crime boss.
You told her very little about yourself at first.
Actress, yes.
Currently filming, yes.
Family lunch from hell, unfortunately.
You did not say Tom’s name.
You did not say James’s.
You did not say tomorrow.
Ivy did not push.
That was part of why you stayed.
Arthur checked on you twice.
The first time, he walked past holding a new drink and mouthed, “Pretty.”
You mouthed, “Die.”
The second time, he actually came over.
“Everything all right?”
You rolled your eyes, but something softened in you.
“Yes.”
Ivy smiled at him.
“I haven’t murdered her.”
“Excellent. Low bar, but we appreciate it.”
“Go away,” you said.
Arthur lifted both hands.
“Going. Very happy for you both.”
“Arthur.”
He disappeared again.
Ivy laughed into her glass.
“Does he do that often?”
“Breathe?”
“Interfere.”
“Constantly.”
“Lucky you.”
You looked at her, surprised.
Ivy shrugged.
“Annoying people who love you are still people who love you.”
That caught you somewhere tender.
You looked down at your drink.
“Yeah.”
Ivy noticed.
She did not make a show of it.
She only said, “Do you want to dance, or is that a terrible suggestion?”
You glanced towards the floor.
The music had changed to something loud and bright and shameless.
“I’m not a good dancer.”
“I didn’t ask if you were good.”
So you danced.
Badly at first.
Stiffly.
Too aware of your limbs, of Arthur somewhere in the room, of the way Ivy stood close but not too close, leaving you the option to retreat.
Then the second song came on.
Then the third.
Your body remembered something before your mind did.
That it could move without being watched by a director.
That it could be touched without becoming evidence.
That it could want without immediately needing to explain itself in court.
Ivy’s hand brushed your waist.
She paused.
A question without words.
You answered by not moving away.
Her hand settled more firmly.
Your breath caught.
She noticed that too.
Unlike Tom, she did not look away from it.
She smiled.
“Still okay?”
You nodded.
“Yes.”
Ivy’s smile changed.
She leaned in slowly enough that you could have stopped her.
You did not.
The kiss was soft at first.
Testing.
Then warmer.
The noise of the bar went strange around you, blurred at the edges, your hand finding Ivy’s sleeve, your fingers closing around the fabric as if you needed proof of something solid.
It was not Tom.
That thought arrived and surprised you.
Not because you wished it were.
Because for once, that was the point.
It was not Tom.
It was not James either/
It was Ivy’s mouth. Ivy’s perfume. Ivy’s hand at your waist. Ivy’s curls brushing your cheek. Ivy laughing softly when someone bumped into you both and apologised with drunken grandeur.
It was the first thing in days that did not feel like it belonged to the film or your family.
When you pulled back, Ivy looked at you carefully.
“Was that a mistake?”
You shook your head.
“No.”
“Good.”
Arthur appeared over Ivy’s shoulder approximately four seconds later.
“I leave you alone for one song.”
You startled.
“Jesus Christ.”
Ivy laughed.
Arthur looked between you both, delighted but trying to pretend he was normal.
“Sorry. Hydration check.”
“You are not sorry.”
“No, I’m thrilled. But also water.”
He handed you a glass.
You took it because, unfortunately, he was right.
Ivy looked amused.
“He really is supportive.”
“He’s a nightmare.”
Arthur bowed slightly.
“Both things can be true.”
Later, much later, outside the bar, the air was cold enough to sober you at the edges.
Arthur stood on the pavement eating chips from a paper cone and watching you with the smug softness of someone who had successfully interfered.
Ivy stood beside you, close enough that her sleeve touched yours.
The streetlights made everything look cinematic and slightly unreal.
Arthur looked at Ivy.
“You seem nice.”
“Thank you?”
“That was not meant to sound threatening.”
“It did a little.”
“Good. Just enough.”
You groaned.
“Ignore him.”
Arthur looked at you.
“I am going to get a car.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
His expression shifted.
The joking thinned.
For a second, it was just the two of you again. You and Arthur. The date waiting after midnight. The absence neither of you had named properly all night.
He stepped closer and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Text me when you’re home.”
You swallowed.
“You too.”
“I will.”
Then, quieter, he said, “She’d be glad you came out.”
Your eyes burned.
“Don’t make me cry outside a bar in Soho.”
“That’s where half of us cry. You’ll blend in.”
You laughed, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
Arthur smiled, then looked at Ivy.
“Take care of her.”
Ivy’s expression was calm.
“I will.”
And, with that, he left.
You watched until he disappeared around the corner.
Then Ivy turned to you.
“No pressure,” she said.
You looked at her.
She nodded slightly down the street.
“I can get you a cab. Or we can walk. Or I can kiss you again and we’ll make a different decision in five minutes.”
You looked at her mouth.
Then back at her eyes.
There it was again.
A choice.
A real one.
Not a dare.
Not a trap.
Not a scene.
Not a man across from you with twenty-three pages of intimacy and a face you could not stop thinking about.
Just Ivy.
A woman in a green jacket under a Soho streetlight, giving you room to want something simple for once.
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader, MMF Smut
Frank lived in Soho, in a loft Tom had been to often enough that his body remembered it before his mind had finished catching up.
The black door. The narrow stairs. The slightly industrial smell of old brick and expensive soap. The landing with one stubborn bulb that flickered when the weather changed. The lift that Frank refused to fix because he claimed it gave the building character.
Tom had hated that lift the first time he came here.
Now, he barely noticed it.
Frank unlocked the door and pushed it open with his shoulder.
The loft was warm. Low lamps. High ceilings. Exposed beams. One wall of old factory windows looking out over the wet shine of Soho rooftops and neon signs. Books everywhere. Contact sheets pinned to corkboard. Cameras on shelves. A half-finished bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter. A framed photograph leaning against the wall because Frank never hung anything in his own home.
He sold stillness for a living and lived inside controlled chaos.
Tom stepped in and took off his coat.
Frank shut the door behind them.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The silence was not awkward.
It was familiar.
Frank moved first, crossing to the kitchen counter.
“Drink?”
Tom smiled.
“Probably shouldn’t. I’ve had a fair bit of wine already.”
Frank reached for two glasses.
“That wasn’t a no.”
Tom watched him pour whisky.
“You never listen.”
“I listen beautifully. I just make executive decisions afterward.”
Tom gave a small breath of a laugh and took the glass when Frank handed it to him.
Their fingers brushed.
Frank noticed.
Of course he did.
Frank noticed everything when he wanted to.
He leaned back against the counter, glass in one hand, eyes moving over Tom with slow, deliberate amusement.
Tom felt the look before he allowed himself to meet it.
“What?”
Frank smiled.
“Nothing.”
“That is never true when you say it.”
“No,” Frank agreed. “But it makes you ask.”
Tom took a drink.
The whisky burned down pleasantly. Too pleasantly. He had already had enough wine at the gallery, enough conversation, enough of you sitting beside him in black satin with that face you made when you were trying not to admit something had hurt.
Frank’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“There he is.”
Tom looked up.
“Who?”
“The man who leaves his body and goes somewhere more irritating.”
“I’m standing here.”
“Barely.”
Tom looked away.
Frank pushed off the counter and came closer.
Not hurriedly.
Frank rarely hurried. He liked people to know they had time to stop him and then enjoyed finding out whether they would.
Tom did not move.
Frank took the glass from his hand and set both drinks on the counter.
Then he reached for Tom’s collar.
“This suit,” Frank murmured.
Tom looked at him.
“What about it?”
Frank’s fingers slid beneath the jacket and loosened it with insulting ease.
“You know exactly what about it.”
Tom’s mouth went dry.
He did know.
That was the problem.
Dark suit. Open shirt. Clean lines. Just careless enough to look like an accident if anyone asked.
Frank had once told him, months ago, half-drunk in this same loft, that he liked Tom best when he looked expensive and undone.
Tom had remembered.
Apparently.
Frank looked up at him through his lashes.
“You wore this on purpose.”
Tom huffed.
“I wore a suit to an exhibition.”
“You wore my favourite suit to my exhibition.”
“It was clean.”
Frank smiled wider.
“Hmm.”
Tom should have said something dry. Something sharp. Something that put distance back between them.
Instead, he stood there while Frank’s hands moved slowly to his collar again.
Frank leaned in.
“You looked handsome tonight it was frankly rude.”
Tom closed his eyes for half a second.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do that voice.”
Frank’s mouth brushed his ear.
“This voice?”
Tom’s breath changed.
Frank laughed softly against his skin.
Always the dominant one. Always the one who found the thread and pulled until Tom stopped pretending not to unravel.
Frank kissed him then.
Not tentative. Not questioning.
A hand at Tom’s throat. Mouth warm, certain, already smiling because he knew Tom would kiss him back.
And Tom did.
Of course he did.
He kissed Frank with the restlessness he had been carrying all night. With the wine and the gallery and your face when you had said too much and then apologised for being honest. With the shame of wanting two incompatible things and having no decent place to put either of them.
Frank made a low sound and walked him backward until Tom hit the edge of the counter.
Tom caught Frank’s shirt in both hands.
Frank broke the kiss just enough to look at him.
“There you are.”
Tom swallowed.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You came home with me.”
“Temporarily.”
“Mm. I can live with temporarily.”
Frank kissed him again, harder this time, and Tom stopped trying to answer.
The undressing happened in pieces.
Frank took Tom’s jacket off first and laid it over the back of a chair with exaggerated care, as if it were something sacred.
“Still my favourite.”
“Yes, you’ve said.”
“I don’t think you’re appreciating the compliment.”
Tom’s shirt came next. Frank’s hands were unhurried with the buttons, his mouth following sometimes, his smile pressed briefly to Tom’s collarbone when Tom’s breathing gave him away.
Tom hated how easily Frank could read him.
He loved it too, in the private, unhelpful way he loved many things that were bad for him.
When Frank’s shirt was open, Tom shoved it from his shoulders with less patience.
Frank laughed.
“Impatient.”
“You’re taking too long.”
“I’m enjoying myself.”
“Enjoy yourself faster.”
Frank caught his jaw and kissed him until the argument left him.
Then Frank pulled back with a grimace, glancing down at his own shirt.
“I need a shower.”
Tom blinked.
“Now?”
“Someone spilled champagne on me.”
“That was two hours ago.”
“And I have been heroic about it.”
Tom looked at him.
Frank’s smile turned wicked.
“Come with me.”
*********Smut-Scene*******
The bathroom was all black tile, brass fittings, mirror glass clouded at the edges. Frank turned the shower on and the room began filling with steam.
Tom stood near the sink, shirt open, hair already a mess from Frank’s hands.
Frank looked at him in the mirror.
“You’re thinking again.”
Tom met his eyes in the reflection.
“I do that.”
“I know. It’s one of your less attractive habits.”
“Only one?”
Frank came up behind him and pressed a kiss just below his ear.
“Several. But tonight you look good enough that I’m forgiving most of them.”
Tom’s eyes closed.
Frank’s hands slid around him, not rough, not gentle either. Knowing. Certain. Taking permission from every breath Tom failed to hide.
For a moment, they only stood there in front of the mirror, half-undressed and reflected back at themselves in fragments. Frank behind him. Tom’s shirt hanging open. Frank’s mouth at the side of his neck. Tom’s hand gripping the edge of the sink as if that made him look less affected.
It did not.
Frank smiled against his skin.
“Still thinking?”
Tom’s eyes flicked up to meet his in the mirror.
“Unfortunately.”
“We’ll see what we can do about that.”
Frank turned him then, slow enough to be deliberate, and pushed the shirt from Tom’s shoulders properly. It fell somewhere near the bathmat. Tom reached for Frank in return, less patient now, dragging the damp, champagne-soured fabric off him and tossing it aside with considerably less ceremony.
Frank laughed under his breath.
“Rude.”
“You said it needed washing.”
“I said I needed a shower.”
Tom looked at him.
Frank’s smile widened.
“Come here,” he said and, after both of them were completely undressed, he took Tom by the wrist and pulled him into the large open shower.
The steam wrapped around them, thick and silvery, as Frank guided Tom towards the stream. Hot water sluiced over Frank’s shoulders first, then caught Tom’s chest as Frank turned him, pressing him against the cool black tile. The contrast made Tom suck in a breath—his back frozen, his front burning under the cascade.
Frank watched him, water dripping from his jaw, and there was that look again. The smug one. The one that said he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much Tom wanted it.
“You’re already hard,” Frank said, voice low but carrying under the splash. “That didn’t take much.”
Tom’s head tipped back against the tile. “You’ve had your hands on me for ten minutes.”
“Seven. But who’s counting?” Frank stepped closer, one hand flattening on Tom’s hip, the other trailing up his ribcage, thumb grazing a nipple. “You’ve been patient. I’ll give you that.”
“I’m not feeling patient anymore.”
“Good.” Frank kissed the corner of his mouth. “Neither am I.”
He sank to his knees.
The water streamed over his back now, plastering his hair to his scalp, and he looked up at Tom through it, through the steam and the rivulets running down his own face. His hands settled on Tom’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle just above his knees, and he let the moment stretch. Let Tom feel the anticipation curl in his stomach.
Then Frank leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe from the base of Tom’s cock to the tip.
Tom’s breath punched out of him. His hands flew to the tile, palms flat, fingers splayed, supporting himself as Frank’s tongue circled the head in a lazy, deliberate swirl. Not rushing. Never rushing. Frank did everything with that maddening, measured confidence—like he had all the time in the world and every second of it belonged to him.
“Fuck,” Tom breathed.
Frank hummed against him, a vibration that traveled straight up Tom’s spine. Then he took him in his mouth properly, lips wrapping tight, and let the heat and the wet and the pressure do their work.
He moved slowly. That was the thing, the maddening, exquisite thing—Frank didn’t bob his head or suck fast or do anything that might let Tom off the hook quickly. He just sank his mouth down inch by inch, letting Tom feel every ridge of his palate, every slick slide of his tongue along the underside, every soft exhale through his nose that fanned warm against Tom’s wet skin.
His hands stayed on Tom’s thighs, steadying him, and when Tom’s hips gave a helpless little jerk, Frank just pressed harder, holding him in place.
“Stay,” he murmured, pulling off just long enough to say it. Then his tongue was back, lapping at the sensitive frenulum, and Tom’s groan echoed off the tile.
Frank liked that. Tom could tell by the way his eyes flicked up, by the smug crinkle at their corners even with his mouth full of his length. He liked making Tom groan. Liked making him lose his composure, his thoughts, his words. Liked reducing him to nothing but a man with his back against a wall and his cock in another man’s throat.
He took Tom deeper now, relaxing his jaw, letting him slide past the soft palate into the tight clench of his throat. He held him there for a long, breathless moment, then pulled back just as slow, lips dragging, tongue flattening on the withdrawal.
“God, Frank—”
Frank didn’t answer. He just did it again. And again. Each time a little deeper, a little slower, until Tom’s thighs were trembling under his palms and the sounds spilling from Tom’s mouth had gone from groans to something closer to begging.
When Frank finally pulled off, it was with a wet, obscene pop that echoed in the steam-filled enclosure. He sat back on his heels, water still hammering his shoulders, and looked up at Tom with reddened lips and a thoroughly satisfied expression.
“Good?” he asked.
Tom’s laugh was half a wheeze.
“You know it’s good.”
“I do.”
Frank stood fluidly, water sluicing off him, and turned toward the mirror cabinet above the sink. The glass was fogged, but he swiped a hand across it, clearing a streak. Through it, Tom saw Frank’s reflection—self-assured, unhurried, entirely in control. Frank opened the cabinet and reached inside.
He came back with a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube, both in plain packaging, both clearly not new.
Frank set the lube on the shelf inside the shower and tore open a condom wrapper with his teeth.
“Turn around,” he said.
Tom didn’t argue. He turned, facing the tile, and pressed his palms against the cool surface. The water still fell, though it was mostly on Frank now—Tom could feel the spray glancing off his shoulder, but his back was mostly dry, and the contrast between the hot steam and the cold tile made him shiver.
Frank noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Cold?” he murmured, stepping up behind him so his chest pressed against Tom’s back, so his mouth found the curve of Tom’s neck.
“Not anymore,” Tom said.
Frank kissed him there, just below the ear, and his hand slid down Tom’s flank to his ass. Not grabbing. Not yet. Just tracing, just mapping the territory he was about to claim. His fingers followed the crease, and then his thumb pressed against Tom’s hole, not pushing in, just resting there with a gentle, circling pressure.
“You’re tense,” Frank said against his neck.
“You put your thumb on a man’s ass and he’s supposed to be relaxed?”
Frank laughed. The sound was low and rich and vibrated right into Tom’s skin.
“Fair point.”
He kissed Tom’s neck again, then bit lightly at the tendon, and while Tom was still reacting to that, he uncapped the lube.
The first finger was cool. Slick. It circled Tom’s hole with more purpose now, and when it finally pressed in, it did so with a slow, steady, relentless pressure that made Tom’s forehead drop to the tile.
“There,” Frank said, as if he’d just solved some complex equation. “That’s better.”
He worked his finger in deeper, twisting slightly, and Tom’s breath went ragged.
Frank added a second finger after a while.
It was more of a stretch, and Tom felt it—felt the burn and the fullness and the way his body had to decide whether to resist or relent.
Frank gave him time to decide. He kept his fingers still for a long moment, let Tom’s muscles adjust, then scissored them just slightly.
Tom groaned, and it was a guttural thing, torn from somewhere low in his chest.
“That’s the sound,” Frank said, and his voice was pure satisfaction. “That’s exactly the sound I wanted.”
He worked his fingers in and out now, slow and thorough, stretching Tom with the kind of meticulous care that bordered on torture and, after mere minutes, Tom was pushing back against his hand, and Frank had to press his other palm flat against Tom’s hip to keep him from rushing things.
“Patience,” Frank said, kissing his neck again. “We’ve come this far. Let me make it good for you.”
“It’s already good.”
“It’s about to be better.”
Frank withdrew his fingers, and Tom felt the sudden emptiness like a loss. Behind him, Frank was rolling the condom down his own length, slicking it with more lube, and then his hands were on Tom’s hips, positioning him, bending him slightly forward.
The head of Frank’s cock pressed against Tom’s entrance.
“Ready?” Frank asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice.”
But Frank’s tone suggested he already knew what Tom’s answer would be, and when Tom pushed back slightly, inviting him in, that same smug satisfaction colored his voice.
“Thought so,” he said.
The head of Frank’s cock pressed against Tom’s entrance then, just barely—a blunt, slick pressure that promised entry but didn’t deliver. Tom’s breath caught, his hands splaying wider on the tile, and he waited. Waited for the stretch, the burn, the fullness.
It didn’t come.
Instead, Frank pulled back, and then the tip was there again, circling. Not pushing. Just tracing the rim in slow, wet loops that made Tom’s hole flutter and clench on nothing.
“Frank,” Tom said, and it came out raw.
“Mm?” Frank’s mouth was at the junction of his neck and shoulder, teeth grazing the skin, tongue soothing the sting. His free hand slid down Tom’s flank, possessive and unhurried, while the other guided his cock in that maddening, shallow glide against Tom’s opening. Over and over. Never breaching.
Tom’s hips pushed back on instinct, seeking more friction, and Frank just chuckled against his throat and shifted away—just enough to deny him.
“You’re a bastard,” Tom breathed.
“I’m a perfectionist.” Frank’s lips brushed his earlobe. “There’s a difference.”
Another circle. Another teasing nudge that slipped past the first ring of muscle for a fraction of a second, just the very tip stretching him open, and then withdrew. Tom groaned, and it was a desperate, frustrated sound, and he could feel Frank’s smile against his neck.
“Stop teasing,” Tom said, and it wasn’t a request anymore. It was a demand, rough around the edges, his voice cracking on the second word.
Frank stilled. The head of his cock rested right there, right at the entrance, not moving. The only sound was the shower and Tom’s ragged breathing.
“Ask nicely,” Frank murmured.
“Please. Stop. Teasing.”
A beat of silence. Then Frank’s hips drove forward in one slow, relentless push, and Tom felt everything—the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming sensation of being filled inch by deliberate inch. Frank didn’t slam into him. He just kept pressing, letting Tom’s body open around him, letting the lube ease the way but not soften the sheer intensity of it.
Tom’s forehead hit the tile. A groan tore out of him, long and low, and Frank’s hand tightened on his hip.
“Breathe,” Frank said as he was half-way inside now. His mouth was at Tom’s ear, and one of his hands had slid around to Tom’s front, finding his cock where it jutted up against his belly, still hard, still slick from Frank’s earlier ministrations. “Breathe through it.”
Tom tried. He really did. But then Frank’s hand started moving on his cock—a slow, twisting stroke that matched the rhythm of his hips—and breathing became a secondary concern.
“Oh,” Tom said, and it was a pathetic sound, almost startled. “Oh, fuck—”
“There we go.” Frank’s voice was steady, almost conversational, but his breathing had picked up. “That’s it.”
He stroked Tom with a firm, practiced grip, and his hips began a slow rolling motion, and the two together—the hand on his cock, the cock in his ass—created a feedback loop of pleasure that short-circuited every rational thought in Tom’s head.
Frank kissed his neck as he fucked him. Open-mouthed kisses, sometimes with teeth, sometimes just the wet press of lips against the sensitive skin below Tom’s ear. He kissed the curve of his shoulder, the knob of his spine, the place where his pulse beat fast and visible. And all the while his hand worked Tom’s cock in steady, relentless strokes.
The shower kept running. Steam kept billowing. The tile stayed cold against Tom’s palms and forehead while Frank’s body stayed hot against his back, and the contrast, the duality of it, made everything sharper, brighter, more real.
After a while, Frank’s pace increased. Not frantic—Frank didn’t do frantic—but more insistent. His thrusts got deeper, his strokes got faster, and the sounds spilling from Tom’s mouth grew louder and less coherent.
“Close,” Tom managed, the word strangled.
“I know.”
Frank’s hand tightened on his cock, and his hips drove in harder, and his mouth found Tom’s neck again, sucking a mark into the skin just above his collarbone.
“I want to feel you come while I’m inside you. I want to feel you tighten around me.”
He punctuated it with a particularly deep thrust, and Tom saw stars.
The orgasm built in his lower back, in his balls, in the base of his spine where Frank’s cock was still driving into him. It built like a wave gathering height before it crested, and when it finally broke, it broke hard.
Tom came with a shout, and his release splashed against the tile in thick, white streaks that the water immediately began to wash away. His whole body clenched—his ass, his thighs, his abdominal muscles—and Frank felt all of it, felt Tom clamp down around him like a vise, and that was what pushed him over the edge.
Frank’s rhythm stuttered. His hips jerked once, twice, and then he was coming too, and his groan was against Tom’s neck, and his hand was still on Tom’s cock, and for a long, breathless moment they were just two bodies locked together under the fall of hot water, shaking through the aftershocks.
When Frank finally pulled out, he did it gently, and the condom was in his hand before Tom could think about it. He disposed of it in the small bin near the sink, then turned back and pulled Tom into a kiss—proper this time, on the mouth, with no agenda beyond the simple fact that he wanted to.
“That,” Frank said when he broke the kiss, and his voice was rougher now, “was a very good shower.”
Tom laughed, and it was a shaky laugh, and his legs were still not entirely steady. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m very possible and the evidence is standing right in front of me, dripping wet and thoroughly fucked.” Frank reached up and smoothed back Tom’s hair, which was plastered to his forehead in a way that should have been unflattering but wasn’t. “Come on. Let’s get dry. I have a bed and it’s been criminally neglected.”
Tom looked at him. “You just—in the shower—and you’re already thinking about the bed?”
“I’m always thinking about the next thing.” Frank’s smile was sharp and satisfied and utterly unrepentant. “Which is clear what makes me such excellent company.” He turned off the water and grabbed a towel from the rack. “You’ll learn.”
*****End of Smut Scene******
Later, in bed, the second time was slower.
Not softer exactly.
Frank was rarely soft in any obvious way.
But they stayed tangled there for another hour or so, losing time in the warm dark, in the city noise beyond the glass, in the easy familiarity of bodies that knew where to go without needing instructions. Frank over him, then beside him, then pulling him close again. Mouths and hands and old history. No hurry now. No performance. No gallery. No girl in black satin sitting beside Tom and seeing too much.
Except she was still there.
Annoyingly.
In his head.
In the space between thoughts.
In the way Tom kept remembering her face when she had said, “Known.”
Frank noticed.
Of course he did.
Afterward, Tom lay on his back, one arm over his eyes, breath still uneven. Frank was beside him, propped on one elbow, fingers moving absently over Tom’s chest.
A dangerous silence.
Tom knew that kind of silence.
It was the kind Frank used before cutting directly into something.
He braced himself too late.
“So.”
Tom did not move.
“No.”
Frank smiled.
“I haven’t asked anything yet.”
“You said ‘so’ like a man approaching a crime scene.”
“You are a crime scene.”
Tom dragged his arm down and looked at him.
Frank’s hair was damp. His face was open in that annoying post-sex way, relaxed and too beautiful and far too pleased with himself.
“What?” Tom asked.
Frank’s fingers paused over his sternum.
“Tamagotchi Girl.”
Tom looked at the ceiling.
There it was.
“No.”
“Again, I haven’t asked anything yet.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Clearly I do, because you’ve become tedious.”
Tom turned his head, but smiled.
“Careful.”
Frank’s smile did not move.
“You first.”
Tom sat up enough to reach for the cigarettes on the bedside table, then remembered they were not there. Frank had made him leave them in his coat.
Tyrant.
He lay back again.
“It was one night in New York.”
Frank nodded solemnly.
“Yes. I heard about that night. Many times. So many times, in fact, that I turned the aftermath into art.”
Tom looked at him sharply.
“Which was not something I approved of.”
Frank’s mouth curved.
“And yet.”
Tom looked away.
“Hmm.”
Frank further leaned towards Tom.
“You’ve talked about this girl for as long as I’ve known you. Not in a sweet way. In that unbearable way you have where you pretend you’re telling an amusing anecdote about a one-night stand, but actually sound like someone left a knife in you.”
Tom stared at the ceiling.
“Dramatic.”
“Accurate.”
“It was one night.”
“A very memorable night apparently.”
Tom exhaled sharply.
“Frank.”
“Tom.”
He hated when Frank said his name like that. Calm. Amused. As if Tom were a badly behaved cat knocking glasses off a shelf for attention.
Tom sat up fully this time and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“She is twenty-four.”
Behind him, Frank gave a soft, unimpressed hum.
“And?”
Tom turned.
“And I am forty.”
“And?”
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m doing it because you keep presenting facts as if they are moral arguments.”
Tom’s jaw tightened.
“She is the producer’s daughter.”
“And?”
“We are in a film together.”
“Yes, I know.”
“With contractual obligations.”
Frank blinked at him.
“Contractual obligations?”
Tom heard himself and hated himself immediately.
“You know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. I’m just enjoying the way you say it.”
“There are intimacy scenes.”
“Yes.”
“A lot of them.”
“Also yes.”
“So perhaps you can see why it is not as simple as you sitting there looking smug and saying ‘and’ every five seconds.”
Frank sat up against the pillows, sheet low at his waist, entirely unbothered.
“I can see why it’s complicated. I can’t see why you’re pretending complication is the same thing as impossibility.”
Tom laughed without humour.
“Of course you can’t.”
“You are a careful man,” Frank said. “Painfully careful, sometimes. If you wanted her, and if she wanted you, you could see each other privately. Just like we do. Maybe even sleepovers, unless you’re as emotionally constipated with her as you are with me.”
Tom gave him a look.
Frank only smiled.
“For the official version, you wait. Finish the film. Be discreet. Let people believe it happened after, when no one can accuse either of you of confusing work with life. People do it all the time.”
“That is not the point.”
“No? What is?”
Tom stood and found his trousers on the floor.
“She doesn’t want me.”
Frank went quiet.
Tom pulled away and then put his trousers on, more aggressively than necessary.
“Every time we get anywhere near a scene, she looks terrified.”
“Of you?”
Tom stopped.
The question landed badly.
“No,” he said, too quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Frank watched him.
Tom raked a hand through his damp hair.
“At first I thought it was because she just can’t act.”
Frank’s expression sharpened.
Tom hated saying it out loud.
“I thought she was afraid because she couldn’t do it. Because she had been given something she hadn’t earned. Because of who her father was.”
“And now?”
Tom looked toward the windows.
Soho glittered beyond the glass, indifferent and wet and full of people making terrible decisions.
“Now I’ve seen her work.”
Frank waited.
Tom swallowed.
“She’s good.”
Frank’s smile was small.
“That sounded painful.”
“She is very good.”
“Worse.”
Tom ignored him.
“She is also not stupid. And she is not weak. And she is not some spoilt producer’s daughter who wandered into a lead role because Daddy made a phone call.”
Frank said nothing.
Tom’s voice dropped.
“And when she freezes, it isn’t because she can’t act.”
Frank tilted his head.
“Then why?”
Tom looked back at him.
“I don’t know. But I think it has to do with me.”
Frank’s gaze stayed steady.
Too steady.
Tom looked away first.
“Maybe she dislikes me.”
“Unlikely.”
“Or maybe because she regrets New York. Like properly regrets it.”
“Maybe.”
That answer irritated him.
He turned.
“You agree?”
“I’m considering it. Unlike you, I don’t find one miserable explanation and marry it immediately.”
Tom gave him a look.
Frank smiled.
“Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she wants you too much and is trying not to show it, which seems to be the most logical explanation to me.”
Tom’s whole body went still.
Frank noticed.
Obviously.
“Don’t.”
“There he is again.”
“Frank.”
“Maybe she is frightened because she already crossed a line with you once and now every scene feels like being asked to do it again in front of thirty crew members. Because maybe, just like you, she hates to be seen.”
Tom said nothing.
Frank continued, quieter now.
“Maybe she is overthinking it. Maybe she is trying to be professional. Maybe she thinks you hate her. Maybe she thinks you judge her.”
Tom looked down.
The last one hit.
Frank’s voice softened further.
“Do you?”
Tom’s mouth tightened.
“No.”
“Did you?”
The silence answered too quickly.
Frank sighed.
“Tom.”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
Tom stared at him.
“What?”
“Have you had an actual conversation with her that doesn’t involve insults, avoidance, or both of you pretending not to remember you’ve seen each other naked?”
Tom’s face went hot.
“Charming.”
“I’m a poet.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Also true.”
Frank leaned forward slightly.
“Talk to her.”
Tom stared at him.
“No.”
“Tell her how you feel.”
“Absolutely not.”
Frank ignored that.
“And ask her how she feels. Properly. Not with that tragic little face you make when you’ve already decided the answer is no and are simply waiting to be wounded by it.”
Tom’s expression flattened.
“I don’t have a tragic little face.”
“You do. It’s one of your most irritating features.”
“Frank.”
“From where I was standing tonight, she is just as into you as you are into her.”
Tom looked away.
Frank’s smile thinned into something more knowing.
“And before you start listing reasons again, yes, I know. She is twenty-four. You are forty. Her father is involved. There is a film. There are contracts. There are scenes. There is probably some tedious clause somewhere telling you not to ruin everyone’s lives with your penis.”
Tom closed his eyes.
“Jesus Christ.”
“But none of that answers the actual question.”
“Which is?”
“Whether she wants you.”
Tom said nothing.
Frank leaned back against the pillows.
“And I think she does. Horribly, actually. In that exact anxious, over-controlled, overthinking way you do. You’re very similar.”
“We are not.”
“You are. Not just because both of your brains appear to operate with too many tabs open and several of them playing music at once.”
Tom gave him a look despite himself.
Frank smiled.
“You’re both emotionally constipated.”
“Charming.”
“Accurate. You both stand there pretending to be sensible while quietly setting yourselves on fire.”
“That is enough.”
“It is not. Talk to her.”
“No.”
“Excellent. Mature.”
“I am not dragging her into some conversation because you have decided to play therapist after sex.”
“God, I would be a terrible therapist.”
“Yes.”
“But I am an excellent photographer, and I know what people look like when they are pretending not to look at each other.”
Tom said nothing.
Frank’s gaze did not let him go.
“You looked at her all night.”
“I did not.”
“You did. Not constantly. You’re not that clumsy. But enough.”
Tom reached for his shirt.
“This is boring.”
“It’s not. You’re uncomfortable.”
“Same thing.”
Frank laughed softly.
“She looked at you too.”
Tom stilled.
Frank saw that as well.
“Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you want to believe me and punish me for saying it.”
Tom buttoned his shirt incorrectly, realised, and swore under his breath.
Frank looked delighted.
“Very composed.”
“That’s enough.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Tom found his cigarettes in his coat pocket and held them up with the dignity of a man recovering control of the room.
“I’m having a cigarette.”
Frank threw the sheet back and stood.
“Fine. I’m coming.”
Tom paused.
“You don’t smoke.”
“No. I supervise.”
“Of course you do.”
Frank pulled on loose trousers and followed him toward the windows.
The loft had a narrow balcony, hardly more than a metal ledge with a railing, but Frank treated it like a terrace in Paris. There was an ashtray on the small outdoor table, a dying basil plant, and one folding chair no one ever sat on.
Tom stepped outside first.
The night air hit him, cold against skin still warm from the shower and bed. He lit the cigarette with hands that were not quite steady enough.
Frank noticed.
Didn’t comment.
For once.
Below, Soho moved in fragments. A couple arguing softly near the corner. A delivery bike cutting through traffic. Two women laughing beneath a streetlamp. Somewhere, music thudded through a basement bar wall.
Tom exhaled smoke and watched it vanish.
Frank leaned beside him on the railing.
“You know I’m right.”
Tom closed his eyes briefly.
“I know you are unbearable.”
“Both things can be true.”
Tom took another drag.
Frank looked out over the street.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think the age is the real thing frightening you.”
Tom said nothing.
“Or her father.”
Still nothing.
“Or the film.”
Tom glanced at him.
Frank’s profile was lit by city glow. Sharp nose. Dark lashes. Mouth made for trouble.
“What, then?”
Frank turned his head.
“I think you really like her a lot.”
Tom laughed once.
Flat.
“Brilliant. Very subtle analysis.”
“No,” Frank said. “I think you like her in the way that would require you to stop making sex tidy.”
Tom’s expression changed.
Frank watched him with a gentleness that was somehow worse than the teasing.
“And I think that terrifies you.”
Tom looked back at the street.
For a long time, he smoked without speaking.
Then he said, very quietly, “She left a relationship that sounded awful. She is young. She is working. She is trying to do this properly. I’m not going to be the next bad decision she makes.”
Frank’s face softened.
“That is almost noble.”
Tom looked at him.
“Almost?”
“Mm. The noble version would involve respecting her ability to choose for herself. Your version has a little too much self-hatred in it.”
Tom snorted.
“You should put that on a print.”
“I might.”
They stood close enough that their shoulders touched.
After a moment, Frank slid a hand around the back of Tom’s neck and drew him in.
The kiss was brief.
No performance in it.
No seduction.
Just familiarity. Affection. A little want left over. A little warning too.
Tom let it happen.
Then stepped back and looked at him.
“You are meddling.”
Frank smiled.
“Yes.”
“Badly.”
“Effectively.”
Tom took another drag of the cigarette and turned back toward the street.
Neither of them saw the figure across the road.
Layla stood half-hidden in the shadow of a closed shopfront, her coat pulled tight around her body, phone raised just enough to look accidental if anyone glanced her way.
Her hand was shaking.
She had followed them here with every intention of turning around.
At the corner.
At the building door.
At the moment Frank took out his keys and Tom followed him inside without hesitation.
Every chance she had to leave had passed through her hands and disappeared.
Now she had the photograph.
Tom on the balcony.
Frank beside him.
Frank’s hand at Tom’s neck.
Their mouths touching.
Layla stared at it.
For a second, she did not even feel jealous.
She felt confused.
Wrong-footed.
Almost stupidly shocked.
Because it was Frank.
Because it was a man. Not a woman.
Her mind snagged there, ugly and startled, as if it had reached for a familiar hurt and found something else entirely. She had expected another woman, somehow. Some actress. Some beautiful ex. Someone like Anya. Someone like you. Someone she could compare herself to and hate properly.
She had not expected this.
She had not expected Tom like that.
With him.
Frank’s hand at the back of his neck.
Tom letting it stay there.
Tom leaning in.
Tom kissing him back.
It was not a long kiss.
That made it worse.
A long kiss she could have called lust. A drunken mistake. Something crude enough to dismiss.
This looked easy.
Private.
Known.
Layla lowered the phone, then looked at the photo again, as if the picture might have changed while she was not watching.
It had not.
Tom was still there.
Frank was still beside him.
And suddenly a dozen small things rearranged themselves in her head in ways she did not like. The way Tom avoided labels. The way he never explained Frank properly. The way Frank had touched him at the gallery like it was nothing. The way Tom had not moved away.
Her stomach turned.
Not only with jealousy.
With something smaller and meaner and more uncomfortable. Something she did not want to name because naming it would make her look worse than hurt.
Tom was bisexual.
The thought arrived bluntly.
She hated how much it unsettled her.
She hated that it did.
She had thought of herself as open-minded. Modern. Not the sort of person who cared. Not the sort of person who would flinch at something like that.
And yet there she was, standing in the street with her phone in her hand, feeling as if she had discovered a version of him she had never been allowed to see.
A version he had kept from her.
Or maybe one she had simply never been important enough to be told about.
That hurt too.
Differently.
Her chest tightened in a way that embarrassed her.
She had known Tom was not hers.
Of course she had.
Tom had made that clear without ever having to say it cruelly. He was careful with arrangements. Careful with words. Careful not to promise.
But there was a difference between knowing you had no claim and seeing proof that someone else had access.
There was a difference between knowing he had other women and seeing a man touch him with that much certainty.
That someone else could put a hand on his neck on a balcony in Soho and not be shrugged off.
That someone else could make him smile like that.
Layla looked down at the photo again.
The image glowed cold and bright in her palm.
Above her, Tom laughed at something Frank said.
A real laugh.
Small. Tired. Unprotected.
Layla’s throat tightened.
The jealousy returned then, hot and useful, because jealousy was easier than shock.
Easier than the strange discomfort twisting beneath her ribs.
Easier than admitting she did not know Tom as well as she had pretended to.
Then her face hardened.
She locked the phone, turned away from the building, and walked quickly down the street before either of them could look down and see her.
On the balcony, Tom finished his cigarette and crushed it out.
Frank watched the street for a moment, frowning faintly.
Tom noticed.
“What?”
Frank shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Tom narrowed his eyes.
“That is never true when you say it.”
Frank looked back at him.
For once, the smile did not fully arrive.
“Probably just Soho.”
Tom followed his gaze, but the pavement below had already swallowed Layla.
There was only the streetlight, the wet road, strangers moving past one another without knowing what damage had just been carried away in someone’s pocket.
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Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom, Bi Tom, Bi Reader,
The evening, unfortunately, did continue.
It continued with Arthur and Leo vanishing into the crowd in a manner that suggested they were either networking, flirting, causing a small diplomatic incident, or all three.
You saw Arthur at one point beside a woman in a white suit, gesturing at a photograph with absolute authority despite having admitted twenty minutes earlier that he thought “aperture” was a French starter.
Leo was worse.
Leo looked as if he had been born inside galleries, sipping wine and nodding at people with that calm, handsome confidence that made strangers confess things to him. Arthur kept appearing at his elbow, saying something that made Leo close his eyes in pain and affection.
“God knows what they’re doing,” you muttered.
Tom looked over.
Arthur had just leaned closer to the woman in the white suit and said something that made her laugh far too loudly.
“God may not want to know,” Tom said.
You looked at him.
The laugh came out of you before you could stop it.
It surprised you.
It surprised him too.
Not badly.
Just enough that his eyes moved to your mouth for half a second before returning to the room.
Frank had disappeared into the main crowd again. He was good at it. Too good. One moment he was by the entrance with the acquisition woman, charming and open and entirely available. The next he was across the room, leaning down to speak to an older man with silver hair and a scarf, one hand in his pocket, the other moving lightly with whatever story he was telling.
He belonged there.
Or rather, he made the room believe he did.
But every now and then, his gaze found Tom.
Not obviously.
Not possessively.
Just a brief glance across shoulders and glass and expensive perfume.
As if checking.
As if measuring.
As if Tom were some private weather system Frank had learned to read.
You noticed it the third time. Again.
Then wished you had not.
Because Tom noticed you noticing.
Of course he did.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
You blinked.
“What?”
“Trying to read the room and whomever is in it.”
You tightened your hand around your wine glass.
“I am behaving normally.”
“You are staring at Frank like he is a crossword clue.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
You looked away.
Your face had gone warm, which was unfair, because you had not been staring at Frank like a crossword clue.
Not entirely.
“He checks on you,” you said before you could stop yourself.
Tom’s expression shifted.
Barely.
But it did.
You looked down at your wine.
“Sorry. Ignore me. That was not my business.”
“It’s all right.”
“Is it?”
He took a moment.
Then, very quietly, “Yes.”
You nodded.
There was nowhere sensible to put the silence after that, so you put it in your glass and drank.
It was a mistake.
Not because you were drunk.
You were not.
But you were warm, and slightly light, and your feet hurt, and Tom was standing too close, and the room was full of photographs of things people should not have recognised.
You shifted your weight.
Your left heel objected immediately.
“Shit.”
Tom looked down.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
You took one very dignified step and almost became part of the exhibition.
Tom caught you by the elbow.
Not dramatically.
Not with both arms.
Just one hand, quick and firm, his fingers closing around the bare skin on your upper arm.
Your body reacted like an idiot.
He steadied you.
You steadied your face.
Mostly.
“Fine,” you said.
“I can see that.”
“It was the floor.”
“It was absolutely the floor.”
“Old buildings do that.”
“Attack women in heels?”
“Yes.”
“Common in Soho.”
You gave him a look, but his hand was still on your arm, and you were very aware of that.
So was he.
He let go.
Not fast.
Not slowly.
Just carefully enough that it became a thing.
You hated things.
“There’s a corner over there,” he said.
“I can stand.”
“You just tried and lost.”
“I did not lose. I reached a private agreement with gravity.”
“Sit down.”
You opened your mouth.
He looked at you.
You closed it again.
“That was very in character of you,” you muttered before you started walking.
Tom stayed near you, not touching, but close enough that if your shoes attempted murder again, he could intervene.
There was a small sitting area near the back of the second room. Two low chairs, a small table with abandoned catalogues, one lamp casting a warm circle of light against the wall. It was not private. Not really. People passed now and then. You could still hear the gallery around you.
But it was quieter.
And your feet, traitorous and practical, thanked him immediately.
You lowered yourself into the chair with the controlled grace of someone pretending not to be in pain.
Tom took the chair beside you.
Not opposite.
Beside.
Angled slightly toward the room, as if that made it less intimate.
It did not.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The silence should have been awkward.
It wasn’t.
That worried you more.
You took another sip of wine and looked across the gallery.
Frank was laughing at something.
His head tilted back slightly, throat exposed, the room opening around him.
“So,” you said.
Tom glanced over.
“You and Frank are good friends, then?”
He looked at Frank too.
The answer took just a fraction too long.
“Yes,” he said.
You waited.
Tom looked back at you.
“Something like that.”
You nodded slowly.
Tom looked away again, almost guiltily, and something in his expression made you decide to leave it there. Not to press. Not to ask for details he clearly was not ready to give you.
For once, you let the silence stay kind.
Then your phone buzzed.
You ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Then again.
Tom noticed.
You wished he had not.
Of course he had.
You took the phone from your bag and glanced at the screen.
James.
Again.
The name alone made something inside you tighten.
You did not open the messages.
You could still see the first line.
Can we please just talk properly?
Then another.
I don’t understand why you’re doing this.
Then another.
Your father said you haven’t spoken to him either.
Your face must have changed, because Tom’s voice softened.
“Everything all right?”
You locked the screen.
“Yes.”
That was automatic.
Too automatic.
Tom did not push immediately.
That somehow made it worse.
You placed the phone face down on your thigh and stared at it as if it were an insect.
“James?” he asked.
You exhaled.
“Mm.”
Tom looked at the phone, then back at you.
“He’s still texting?”
“Daily.”
Tom’s jaw moved slightly.
“Since you ended it?”
“Yes,” you began. “Which makes sense I guess, because I didn’t exactly end it with a neat PowerPoint presentation.”
“No?”
“No. It was more of a kitchen-based emotional collapse. I told him to get out and he gave me some excellent lines about my brain being defective.”
Tom’s expression changed.
The amusement left first.
Then something colder replaced it.
“What?”
You shook your head.
“It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t sound fine.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“No,” he said. “But it sounds like it was yours and still is somehow.”
That landed.
Worse because he did not say it theatrically.
He just said it.
You looked away.
“I haven’t answered most of them.”
“How do you feel about that?”
You stared at him.
Then you laughed.
Tom frowned.
“What?”
“Sorry.”
“What?”
“You’re in character again right now.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“In character?”
“Yes.”
“As who?”
“Jason.”
“Jason?”
“Rose’s psychologist.”
Tom looked at you for one second.
Then understood.
His mouth curved despite himself.
“I ask one emotionally responsible question and suddenly I’m in character as the deranged therapist from our film?”
“You did the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The careful one. The one you do when Rose is spiralling and Jason is pretending he didn’t notice she’s lying.”
“I do not have a therapist voice.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I’m horrified you think that.”
“You should be. It is very effective.”
He looked away, smiling.
You felt a ridiculous, bright little warmth in your chest.
Then, from inside your bag, Fred beeped.
Loudly.
Aggressively.
Demanding life.
Tom’s head turned.
You froze.
Fred beeped again.
Tom stared at your bag.
“No.”
You closed your eyes.
“Don’t.”
“Is that—”
“No.”
“That is.”
“Tom.”
“Fred is still around?”
You looked at him.
He looked far too pleased.
“You remember his name?”
Tom leaned back slightly.
“He was memorable.”
“He is sensitive.”
“He’s a pixelated egg with abandonment issues.”
You dug into your bag, found the Tamagotchi, and pressed buttons with the grim urgency of a battlefield medic.
Tom watched you do it.
You hated that too.
Or did not hate it enough.
Fred made a satisfied chirp.
You looked down at the screen.
“He was sad.”
“Tragic.”
“You’re laughing, but he nearly died.”
“I’ll try to respect the gravity of it.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
You slipped Fred back into your bag.
For a while, you both sat there with your drinks, not talking, watching the gallery move in front of you.
Frank crossed the room again.
He did not come over.
But he glanced at Tom.
Then at you.
Then away.
You watched Tom not watch him back.
The room felt strange.
Like everything important was happening just outside language.
You took another sip of wine.
Then you said, softly, “You know, I prefer this.”
Tom turned his head.
“What?”
You gestured vaguely between you.
“This.”
He looked at you.
“Us sitting?”
“Us not being at each other’s throats.”
His expression changed.
You regretted saying it immediately.
Not because it was untrue.
Because it was too true.
Tom looked down into his glass.
“Yes,” he said.
The word was quiet.
Too quiet for the room.
You waited.
He did not look at you when he spoke again.
“I take the blame for quite a lot of that.”
You frowned.
“I was there too.”
“I know.”
“I was difficult.”
“You were terrified because I behaved like a dick.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked at him.
His eyes stayed on his glass.
“That’s different,” he said.
For once, nothing sarcastic arrived in your mouth.
Tom took a breath, then let it out slowly.
“I can be… unpleasant when I feel cornered.”
“You? Really?”
He looked at you then.
The joke died before you could finish it.
He smiled anyway, but only faintly.
“Yes. Shocking.”
You wrapped both hands around your wine glass.
He looked past you, toward the wall, toward the photographs, toward anywhere that was not directly your face.
“Sometimes my protection mechanism makes me an arse,” he said quietly. “I know that.”
You did not interrupt.
“I may not have seemed it, but I was terrified too at first. Of acting opposite you.”
That surprised you.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Tom’s mouth moved slightly.
“Because of who you were.”
You stiffened.
“The producer’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
You looked down.
“And because of what had happened between us already.”
That took the breath out of you more efficiently than you would have liked.
He said it plainly.
Without smirk. Without accusation.
New York sat between you again.
Not as a joke now.
Not as a photograph.
As a room. A bed. A book on a table. The memory of two people not asking enough questions because questions would have ruined the thing before it happened.
Tom’s voice stayed low.
“And then there was James.”
You looked at your phone.
Face down.
Still there.
“And the cheating bit,” Tom said.
You turned back.
“I didn’t cheat.”
“I know that now.”
The now did more than it should have.
You looked away.
“At the time, you assumed.”
“Yes.”
“Because I was engaged.”
“Because you were engaged, and because I didn’t know you, and because I am very good at assuming the thing that makes people easier to dislike.”
You stared at him.
He gave a short, humourless laugh.
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Yes.”
You were quiet.
Then, because you could not help yourself, because the room was too honest now and your brain had never known when to leave a wound alone, you asked, “So you’ve been cheated on? Is that why the idea of infidelity gets under your skin so much?”
Tom’s eyes moved to yours.
You should have apologised.
You did not.
You only added, softer, “Is that why that’s so…”
You made a small helpless gesture.
He watched you.
Then he looked back out at the room.
“Yes.”
The word was flat.
Controlled.
“My ex was sleeping with one of my mates for half a year while we were engaged.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Tom.”
He shrugged once.
Too casual.
Too false.
“It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t mean it stopped mattering.”
His eyes returned to you.
You were not sure which of you looked more surprised that you had said it.
Tom looked down.
“No,” he said. “Apparently not.”
You sat with that.
The gallery kept going around you.
People laughing. Drinking. Buying fragments of other people’s intimacy.
Tom’s thumb moved once along the stem of his glass.
“After that,” he said, “I didn’t want another relationship. And I still don’t, because being in love with someone is just too…”
He stopped.
Too what, you almost asked.
Too frightening. Too much. Too close to giving someone a loaded gun and trusting them not to point it at the softest part of you.
Tom looked down into his glass.
“Too expensive,” he said finally.
You frowned.
“Emotionally?”
His mouth curved without humour.
“Catastrophically.”
You thought of the gossip then.
The names.
Jess. Layla. Anya.
Women in messages. A hickey on a Sunday. Wardrobe talking.
You thought of the way he could be so private that it became almost aggressive.
“So now you established a rota for your sexual needs instead?” you said, then immediately wanted to throw yourself through the nearest wall.
Tom turned his head very slowly.
“A rota?”
You closed your eyes.
“Sorry.”
“A rota.”
“That sounded awful.”
“Yes,” he said. “It did.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, please,” he said, face unreadable. “I’m fascinated.”
You pressed your fingers briefly to your temple.
“I meant a system.”
“That’s better.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
You made a helpless sound.
“I mean you have people you trust, or people who don’t ask for more, or people who know the rules you put in place for yourself, and then you never have to actually be—”
You stopped.
Tom’s gaze was on you now.
Sharp.
Careful.
Too close.
“Be what?” he asked.
You swallowed.
“Known.”
The word came out before you could dress it up.
Tom went very still.
You wished you had said something ridiculous instead.
Something about Fred.
Something about Arthur committing fraud in the next room.
Anything else.
But you had said it.
And he had heard you.
For a long moment, Tom said nothing.
Then, quietly, “That’s an interesting diagnosis, Doctor.”
You let out a breath, half laugh, half apology.
“Jason has infected me.”
“Apparently.”
“I’m sorry.”
He considered you.
Then he shook his head once.
“Don’t be.”
You looked at him.
“I’m not entirely wrong?”
His mouth tilted.
“You’re not entirely kind.”
“No.”
“But no,” he said. “You’re not entirely wrong.”
Your chest tightened.
You nodded.
Then you looked down at your phone again.
James had sent another message.
The screen lit up without your permission.
I know you think I’m the villain right now but I’m worried about you.
You flipped it over again too quickly.
Tom saw enough.
His expression hardened.
You said, before he could speak, “He’s always very worried about me when I’m not doing what he wants.”
Tom looked at you.
You laughed once.
Dry.
“Sorry. That sounded bitter.”
“No. It sounded accurate and he is clearly trying to control you still.”
You stared at the floor.
“He was good at first, you know…” you said.
Tom did not move.
You had not planned to say any of this.
But perhaps that was the danger of a quiet corner and expensive wine and a man who had stopped trying to be cruel to you.
“He was stable,” you said. “Or I thought he was. Sensible. Appropriate. My parents liked him.”
Tom made a small sound.
You smiled without humour.
“Yes. That should have warned me.”
“Your parents seem difficult.”
You looked at him.
Then at Arthur, who was now pointing emphatically at a tiny black-and-white photograph while Leo stood behind him looking both fond and exhausted.
“My parents are…”
You searched for a word that would not take all night.
“Formal.”
Tom’s eyebrow moved.
“Formal?”
“Cold. Controlling. Terrified of embarrassment. Very committed to the idea that if something looks respectable enough, it must be moral.”
Tom listened.
Not with Jason’s careful expression now.
With something quieter.
More personal.
You looked down into your wine.
“They weren’t always like that.”
Tom did not speak.
You were grateful for it.
“My sister died when I was in high school,” you said. “Overdose.”
The word came out plainly.
Too plainly.
As if making it neat might make it smaller.
It did not.
Tom’s face changed. Although, of course, he had seen the headlines since. He knew.
So, he didn’t look at you with shock.
And not pity, exactly.
Just attention.
The kind that did not try to interrupt grief because it was uncomfortable.
“After that,” you said, “everything in our house became about containment. Rules. Appearances. Control. If everything looked perfect, then nothing terrible could happen again.”
You laughed once, without any humour in it.
“Which is obviously insane, but grief makes people very committed to insane ideas.”
Tom’s hand tightened slightly around his glass.
“They thought if I was too emotional, too impulsive, too loud, too anything, then I was at risk. So they wanted me medicated. Managed. Kept safe from myself.”
The last words tasted bitter.
You swallowed and looked across at Arthur again.
He was laughing now, head tipped toward Leo, alive and bright and completely impossible to contain.
“And Arthur…”
You stopped.
Tom waited.
“Arthur being gay became part of that same fear. Not just because they were embarrassed, though they were. But because in their heads anything outside the respectable little line meant danger. Risk. Acting out. Ruin. Death.”
Tom’s eyes stayed on you.
Something in his expression had gone very still.
“They acted like he had chosen a more dangerous life just by existing honestly.”
Your voice had gone quieter.
You hated that.
You hated that it still hurt.
“Before my sister died, I don’t think they were good at love, exactly. But they weren’t like that. Not to this extent.”
You looked down at your glass.
“Afterwards, they loved us like we were evidence. Like if Arthur and I survived, behaved, married correctly, dressed correctly, spoke correctly, then maybe it meant they hadn’t failed the first time.”
Tom said nothing.
That made it easier to keep going.
“So yes. James made sense to them.”
Your mouth twisted.
“He was respectable. He had the right manners. The right family. The right suit. The right way of sounding concerned when he was actually just angry I wasn’t doing what he wanted.”
Tom’s jaw moved.
You noticed.
Of course you did.
“And I let that matter,” you said. “For longer than I should have.”
The words sat there.
Too large.
Too personal.
Too much yours to have handed over so easily.
The gallery seemed to come back all at once. The sound of glasses. The low murmur of strangers. Frank’s laugh from somewhere near the entrance. Arthur and Leo still orbiting each other across the room.
And Tom beside you.
Listening.
Actually listening.
Your face went hot.
“Shit.”
Tom turned his head slightly.
“What?”
You looked down into your wine.
“Why am I telling you all this?”
He did not answer immediately.
That made you more embarrassed.
You laughed once, small and sharp.
“Sorry. That was such a lot. You asked one question about my parents and I’ve apparently decided to deliver a tragic family monologue in the corner of an art gallery.”
Tom’s mouth moved faintly.
Not a smile.
Not quite.
“It wasn’t a monologue.”
You glanced at him.
“It absolutely was.”
“No,” he said. “A monologue implies I wasn’t involved.”
You blinked.
Tom looked down into his glass.
“I asked.”
The simplicity of it undid you a little.
You looked away again.
“Still.”
“Still what?”
“Still inappropriate.”
“Because it was honest?”
Your throat tightened.
You hated that he had gone there so quickly.
“Because it was too much.”
Tom was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “I don’t think too much is always the problem people think it is.”
You looked at him then.
He was not watching you with pity.
That helped.
He was watching you as if he understood the mechanics of shutting things away and the cost of doing it for too long.
“No?” you asked.
“No.”
He leaned back slightly, his glass loose in one hand.
“Sometimes people say ‘too much’ when they mean inconvenient. Or uncomfortable. Or something they don’t know how to hold properly.”
You swallowed.
Tom’s eyes stayed on yours.
“That doesn’t make the thing too much.”
Your mouth twitched weakly.
“That was dangerously wise.”
“I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”
You breathed out, almost a laugh.
Then he looked across the room toward Arthur.
Arthur was laughing at something Leo had said now, his whole face open, one hand lifted in dramatic protest.
Tom watched him for a second.
“Your parents were trying to control what scared them,” he said quietly. “That doesn’t mean they were right. It just means they were frightened and made that everyone else’s problem.”
You stared at him.
He looked back.
“That’s not love, by the way.”
The words landed harder than you expected.
You looked down.
“They would say it is.”
“I’m sure they would.”
“They would say they were protecting us.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “People use that word when they don’t want to admit they’re managing their own fear.”
You were still.
Tom seemed to realise he had said something too cleanly.
Too close to the bone.
He looked down into his glass, thumb moving once along the stem.
“Trust me,” he said quietly. “I am speaking from experience.”
You looked at him.
He did not look back immediately.
“Not the same experience,” he added. “But close enough.”
There was a pause.
Then his mouth moved faintly, without humour.
“I’ve spent a great deal of my life calling things protection when really I was just frightened.”
Your chest tightened.
Tom glanced at you then.
Briefly.
Carefully.
“Of course, in my case, it mostly makes me an arse.”
You gave a small laugh, because he had clearly put the joke there for you to hold onto.
“We have established that.”
“Thoroughly.”
He looked back across the room, toward Arthur, toward Frank, toward all the people moving easily through the gallery as if none of them had ever been damaged by anything.
“But that’s what it is, I think,” he said. “Fear dressed up as good sense. Or boundaries. Or concern. Or whatever makes it sound less pathetic.”
You watched him.
He seemed almost embarrassed by his own honesty now.
Not ashamed exactly.
Just exposed.
“People can do a lot of damage while insisting they are only trying to keep someone safe, or even just to keep themselves safe;” he said.
The words landed softly.
Too softly.
You looked down.
“Thanks.”
Tom turned his head.
“For what?”
You swallowed.
The answer felt stupidly vulnerable.
But so did everything now.
“For listening.”
Tom’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
His face softened in a way he probably would have denied if you pointed it out.
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I think I do.”
“No,” he said, quieter. “You don’t.”
You looked at him.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Tom looked away first, as if the eye contact had become too honest to survive.
“But you’re welcome.”
Then Fred beeped again. Of course he did.
You ignored him.
Tom looked at the bag.
“You’re going to neglect your son?”
“He can sit with his feelings.”
“Cruel.”
“He needs resilience.”
Tom’s mouth curved.
The heaviness lifted.
Not gone.
Just bearable.
Across the room, Frank caught Tom’s eye again.
This time Tom looked back.
Frank’s expression was unreadable from where you sat, but softer than before. Questioning, perhaps.
Tom lifted his glass a fraction.
Frank’s mouth curved.
Then he turned back to the person in front of him.
You watched the exchange.
You tried not to let your face do anything obvious.
It probably failed.
Tom looked at you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
You shifted in your chair and winced.
Tom noticed immediately.
“Still hurt?”
“My feet?”
“No, your pride.”
“Both.”
“You should take the shoes off.”
“I will not be barefoot in a Soho gallery.”
“Because that’s where you draw the line?”
You laughed and said “yes”.
You hated how easily you were smiling now.
Worse, he looked happy to have done it.
Not triumphant.
Happy.
Quietly.
That was more dangerous.
The next hour passed oddly.
In pieces.
Arthur returning twice, each time with less wine in his glass and more confidence in his opinions. Leo apologising silently behind him with his eyes. Frank appearing once to check on Tom.
You stayed in the corner longer than intended.
Your heels hurt.
Your wine glass kept being refilled by people who seemed to materialise and vanish without asking.
Tom stayed too.
Not glued to you.
Not obviously.
He spoke to other people when they approached. He was polite. Dry. Less actorly than people expected, which seemed to disappoint some of them and please others.
But somehow he always returned to the same angle.
The same chair.
The same small table between you and the rest of the room.
At one point, Arthur appeared beside you, looked at Tom, looked at you, then said, “I’m just going to say this once.”
You said, “Don’t.”
“I haven’t said it.”
“I know what your face is doing.”
Arthur placed a hand dramatically over his heart.
“My face is innocent.”
Leo, behind him, said, “It is not.”
Tom coughed into his glass.
Arthur looked delighted.
You looked at Leo.
“Take him somewhere.”
Leo sighed.
“I’ve tried.”
Arthur leaned closer.
“Leo has been invited to something very boring after this.”
“It is not boring,” Leo said. “It is drinks with people from that magazine I like.”
“That is exactly what I said.”
You frowned.
“You’re going out after this?”
Arthur’s face brightened in a way you immediately distrusted.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say you should come.”
“No.”
Leo smiled apologetically.
“It will be very late.”
“Absolutely not.”
Arthur looked at Tom.
“You coming?”
Tom looked mildly horrified.
“No.”
Arthur grinned.
“Shame.”
You kicked Arthur’s ankle under the table.
He yelped.
Tom looked away, smiling.
Eventually, the gallery began to thin.
The room changed first in sound, then in shape. Voices became fewer and easier to identify. Empty glasses accumulated on windowsills. Someone laughed too loudly near the entrance and then apologised to no one in particular.
Frank was still moving through it all with alarming stamina.
Arthur had returned to Leo’s side and was now, from the look of it, attempting to convince him that “one drink” meant “several, in a different postcode.”
You checked the time.
Late.
Later than you thought.
Your phone had gone quiet.
That was worse than the buzzing, somehow.
You stood carefully.
Tom stood too.
It was automatic.
You pretended not to notice.
“I should call an Uber.”
Tom looked toward Arthur.
“Is Arthur not taking you home?”
You laughed.
“Arthur and Leo are going out after this it seems.”
Tom frowned.
“And?”
“And I am a big girl and can get home on my own.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t, but - ”
He stopped himself.
You opened the app.
Tom watched with the expression of someone trying very hard not to say something.
You glanced up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are dreadful at nothing.”
He looked toward the entrance, then back.
“It’s late.”
“It’s Soho.”
“That doesn’t make it safer.”
“No, but it makes it full of Ubers.”
You tapped through the booking.
Your driver was eight minutes away.
“There,” you said, showing him your phone as if you had just presented evidence in court. “Ordered.”
Tom looked at it.
Then at you.
“Good.”
You put your phone back into your bag.
The word warmed you more than it should have.
Good.
As if he had any right to be relieved.
As if you had any right to like it.
Arthur materialised beside you with Leo.
“Are you fleeing?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
“You are going to drink with magazine people.”
“I asked you to come.”
Leo touched Arthur lightly on the back of the neck.
“Let her go home.”
Arthur sighed and then nodded before kissing your cheek.
“Thank you for being my plus one.”
Leo hugged you next, gentler, warmer.
“Get home safe.”
“I will.”
Tom stood a little apart, giving you room to say goodbye.
You hated that you noticed.
Frank appeared then, as though the gallery itself had produced him for the final scene.
“Leaving already?”
“Already?” you said. “I think I’ve aged here.”
Frank smiled.
“Good art does that.”
You stared at him.
“It does, it seems,” you agreed, causing Tom to chuckle.
“Don’t encourage him.”
Your eyes flicked to him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then your phone buzzed with the Uber notification.
“Okay,” you said. “That’s me.”
There was an odd little pause.
Not dramatic.
Not visible to anyone who was not standing inside it.
But Tom felt it.
You did too.
He glanced toward the door.
“Do you want me to wait outside with you?”
You lifted your chin.
“No.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed faintly.
“I can.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t implying—”
“I know,” you said, softer.
The irritation left him immediately.
That was becoming a problem.
Frank watched you both with infuriating quiet.
Arthur watched too.
Less quietly.
Leo, bless him, pretended not to.
You adjusted the strap of your bag.
“I’ll be fine.”
Tom nodded once.
Then, after a moment, “Okay. I hate to sound strange.”
You blinked.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
His mouth moved, but he did not quite smile.
“Text me when you get home.”
The room seemed to narrow.
You stared at him.
He held your gaze.
Not embarrassed.
Not entirely.
Just uncomfortable with the fact that he had said it and unwilling to take it back.
“You’ve got my number now,” he added.
You laughed, because it was either that or let your face do something unforgivable.
“Very modern.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You made it weird.”
“I made it practical.”
“You made it Dad-coded.”
Tom looked appalled.
Frank made a sound of delight.
Arthur choked on his wine.
Leo covered his mouth.
Tom pointed at you.
“Never say that again. I am begging you.”
You were smiling now.
Helplessly.
“Sure,” you said. “I’ll text you.”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Good.”
Again.
That word.
You turned before it could do further damage.
Outside, the night had gone cool.
Soho was bright and wet-looking under the streetlights, though it had not rained. People spilled from bars and restaurants, laughing too loudly, smoking too close to doors, living their lives in clusters.
You waited under the gallery awning with your arms crossed against the cold.
Your Uber arrived three minutes later.
Before getting in, you glanced back through the glass.
Tom was still visible inside.
Frank beside him now.
Arthur and Leo just beyond them.
Tom saw you looking.
You lifted your hand once.
He lifted his glass.
It should not have felt like anything.
It did.
You got into the car.
The driver asked your name.
You answered.
The gallery slid away behind you.
You did not see the woman standing further down the street, half-hidden beside a closed shopfront, phone in hand, coat pulled tight around herself.
Layla had been there for almost the entire evening.
At first, she had told herself it was ridiculous.
She had not followed him.
Not really.
She had only been nearby.
Which was a lie, but a manageable one.
She had known about the exhibition. Tom had mentioned it days ago without thinking, or perhaps with that careless vagueness he used when he did not want to explain himself.
A friend’s thing.
That was what he had called it.
As if it didn’t come with a tone.
As if Layla did not hear the difference.
She had arrived too early and hated herself for it, standing across the street, watching strangers pass in and out of the gallery. Men in black coats. Women in satin. People kissing cheeks, smoking, laughing, carrying tote bags with the exhibition print on them.
Then she had seen you.
You, in black satin.
You, with Arthur.
You, laughing at something Leo said.
Layla had gone cold all over.
Not because you were there.
Of course you were there.
You seemed to be everywhere lately.
On set. In conversation. In Tom’s pauses.
Everywhere.
She had watched you go inside.
Then she had waited.
She hated that she waited.
She hated that she checked the time.
Hated that she imagined you and Tom inside together, standing too close near photographs, making all those tiny clever comments he seemed to like from you. She had seen him like that before, not with you, but with people he found interesting. His attention sharpened. His face changed. He became less absent.
Layla knew absence well.
Tom could be beside you and still halfway out the door.
Then you came out alone.
That confused her.
You stood under the awning, checked your phone, got into an Uber.
Alone.
Layla watched the car pull away.
For one horrible, relieving second, she thought she had been wrong.
Maybe nothing was happening.
Maybe she had made herself insane over a girl who happened to be in a film with him.
Maybe Tom really was just Tom, difficult and unavailable and allergic to being claimed.
Maybe he was still inside with friends.
Maybe she should go home.
She did not.
She stayed.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then thirty.
Inside, the gallery lights dimmed slightly, though people still lingered near the door.
Frank came into view first.
Laughing, head turned toward Tom.
Then Tom stepped out beside him.
Layla’s breath caught.
They looked relaxed.
Like good friends.
That was all.
Tom put on his coat. Frank said something. Tom shook his head, but he was smiling.
Not the public smile.
Not the tight one.
A real one.
Layla’s fingers tightened around her phone.
Frank touched his arm.
Briefly.
Naturally.
As if he had done it a thousand times and had never once wondered whether he was allowed.
Tom did not move away.
Then Arthur and Leo came out behind them, loud and bright and clearly heading in another direction. Goodbyes were exchanged. Frank kissed Leo on both cheeks. Arthur said something that made Frank laugh. Tom stood back, hands in coat pockets, watching.
Normal.
Friendly.
Nothing.
Layla told herself that again.
Then Frank turned to Tom and said something softer.
Tom glanced down the street.
Then nodded.
Frank smiled.
They started walking together.
They were probably going for a drink Layla thought.
He was spending time with a mate.
An old friend.
She should go home.
Instead, when they turned the corner, Layla followed.
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