“There’s not much to tell,” I say, stabbing at my chips. “He died about a year ago. Heart attack. Classic mid-seventies cliché.”
Pete’s expression softens. “I’m sorry.” He nods, not pitying, just listening. “That must’ve been hard.”
“Hard and weird,” I admit, “because I grieve, but I don’t. I miss the idea of him more than the man. Miss what we never had. Which sounds pathetic, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Pete says firmly. “It sounds human.”
Something in my chest cracks a little. I’ve talked about this before, with Craig, with a therapist, but Pete’s response hits differently. Simple, no judgement.
“I think,” he continues, “we spend so much time trying to fit our lives into other people’s expectations—parents, partners, whoever—that we forget we’re allowed to want something else.”
I nod, relieved.
“So now,” Pete says, lifting his beer, “I live by one rule: build the life you want, not the one other people think you should have. If that means polyamory, fine. If that means Netflix alone with your cat, also fine.”
“Buster would hate that,” I mutter.
Chapter 11
PETE
Pete can’t stop looking at Tom’s mouth when he laughs—head tipped back, eyes creasing, the sound catching warm in Pete’s chest. They spill out of the taxi still laughing and Tom fumbles his keys like he’s never encountered a lock before.
“Third time’s the charm,” Tom says, missing on the fourth.
“Here,” Pete murmurs, gently taking the keys. “Allow a professional.” The door clicks, and Tom shoots him a look like he’s just solved world peace.
Inside, the house smells of wood polish and something citrus. It has that quiet pride, three storeys of clean lines and quiet wealth—the kind of place that makes you take your shoes off out of respect. That feeling of home.
One he’s not felt for a long while.
A tabby cat pads into the hallway with the sort of disdain only cats and certain maître d’s can pull off.
“Buster,” Tom announces. “This is Pete. Be kind.”
The cat gives Pete a long, unimpressed blink and leaves the room as if filing a complaint
“He’ll come back when he decides I’m worthy,” Pete says.
“You and every man I’ve ever dated,” Tom mutters, then flushes. “Tea? Wine? Water? A ceremonial handshake?”
Pete grins. “Wine. And I’ll forgo the handshake if you promise never to say ‘ceremonial handshake’ again.”
Tom returns with two glasses of red, sets them down, then hovers close enough for Pete to notice the flecks of grey at his temples.
The first kiss makes time politely leave the room. Tom tastes faintly of mint and beer and something Pete suspects is relief. By the time they reach the stairs, laughing and bumping into the banister like teenagers, the sofa is irrelevant.
In the bedroom, under the soft glow of the lamp, they take their time before abandoning the idea of promises altogether. Pete tries not to catalogue every small thing that ruins him—how careful Tom is, how quickly he blushes, the way he says Pete’s name like a decision he enjoys making.
Afterward, they lie tangled in the heat, a sheet more decorative than functional. Tom breathes hard beneath Pete’s palm, staring at the ceiling as though searching for a script.
“That was…” Tom’s voice falters. “Really nice.”
“Nice?” Pete teases. “That’s British understatement. File it next to ‘bit chilly’ and ‘my nan’s funeral was fine.’”
Tom laughs, tips his face toward Pete, kisses him softly. The room drifts into that delicate quiet where you either reach for your phone or confess something unplanned. Tom chooses confession.
And then they talk more, this time about Tom’s ex-husband.
