“Cool. Very modern. Very… Channel 4 documentary,” I say, spearing a piece of lemony fish like it’s offended me personally.
He laughs, the sound warm and low, and reaches for the wine bottle. “We aim for Channel 4. But most often we lean more into Channel 5.”
“Ah, bit filthier, and with more adverts.”
“Exactly. But with a Jane McDonald soundtrack.”
“Ah, yes,” I nod. “So, we have the house to ourselves tonight?” I ask.
“Well, not all night. They’ll be back at some point.”
Hooray.
“And will they join us?”
“For a nightcap? Yeah, I’d imagine so.” Pete looks at me gauging my reaction to this news.
“And when you say ‘nightcap’?”
“Relax. I mean a glass of wine, not an orgy.”
I nearly choke. “Was that an option? Because I’m definitely underdressed.”
“You’d be fine,” he teases, topping up my glass. “You’d look great at an orgy.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I say, heat creeping up my neck, “but I’m the kind of person who panics about whether to take my shoes off in other people’s houses. I don’t think I’d thrive in a no-clothes environment.”
“Well, we’re not exactly an orgy kind of household, so you can relax,” he says softly, leaving his foot there, a warm line of pressure against my ankle.
I exhale, forcing a laugh. “Relaxing is not my default setting. I am an anxious man powered by coffee and worst-case scenarios.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says, eyes glinting, “you get this little furrow right here whenever you’re overthinking.”
Before I can respond, he leans forward and, with one finger, smooths the little crease between my brows.
“Better,” he murmurs.
“I do not furrow,” I say, furrowing. It feels nice to have him touch me.
“You do,” he says, withdrawing his hand but not his gaze.
I pick up my wine. “I mean, yes, I was worrying about meeting James. And also about whether my cat is at home plotting my death for not feeding him on time.”
Pete laughs, and this time he reaches over properly, covering my hand where it rests on the table. His thumb rubs absent circles over my skin as he says, “Tom, you are a grade A overthinker.”
“I just—” I pause, staring at our hands. “I’m good at overthinking. Like, Olympic-level. Give me a situation and I will catastrophise it until it looks like an episode ofEastEnders.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“It is. But—” I swallow, looking up at him, “—it’s also because I care. About getting things right. About not wasting time with the wrong people. When my dad died, it sort of… flipped a switch. Made me realise how much I’d been sitting on my hands, waiting for life to feel meaningful instead of doing something about it.”
Pete’s expression shifts, the teasing gone. He squeezes my hand once, firmly. “Yeah. I get that.”
“You do?”
He nods. “I had a rough childhood. Dad was… not someone you’d call father of the year. Noise, booze, shouting. Mum left early on. It makes you crave stability. Real connection. People who actually want to stick around.”
The words hang between us, soft as the candlelight, and suddenly I’m very aware of how close we’re sitting. His knee is still pressed to mine. His hand is still over mine.
