I place my hand over his. “Indeed.”
“Thank you for telling me about Guy. And your Dad.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad you’re getting to know me. I want to know you in the same way.”
Pete smiles like he’s been there, because maybe he has. “My dad…” He hesitates, twirling the stem of his glass. “He was just… absent. No contact. No apologies. No explanations.”
I swallow hard, feeling that ache of recognition. “So, you know that feeling. That hole where something should be. That sense of being on your own, even when you’re not.”
He meets my eyes, and for a moment it’s just us and the soft hum of the fridge. “Exactly. Which is why I think we both take this”—he gestures between us—“seriously. We don’t want casual. We don’t want disposable. We want something that feels real, because we’ve already lived with things that weren’t.”
My chest tightens in a way that’s both painful and… warm. “God, you make me sound like some hopeless romantic.”
“You are a hopeless romantic,” he teases, grinning. “But so am I. I think that’s why this works.”
And just like that, I’m smiling into my glass like an idiot, because he’s right. This does work. Despite the awkward dinners, the James-shaped cloud hovering over everything, despite the red flags waving like it’s a bank holiday parade — this is the first time in years I’ve felt understood.
“I’m really glad you asked me to stay tonight,” I say finally.
Pete’s grin softens into something warmer. “Me too.”
For a long moment, we just sit there, grinning at each other like teenagers with a crush, and for once I stop overthinking everything.
We end up on the sofa after dinner, the remains of dessert abandoned on the table because apparently, we are adults who can just leave dishes for Future Us to resent. Pete puts on some music — low, jazzy, the kind of thing that makes you feel cooler by association — and we curl up together, his arm slung across my shoulders like it lives there.
It’s stupid how comfortable this feels. Like my entire body has been holding its breath all day and finally lets go.
Chapter 19
TOM
We’re on the sofa, plates from dinner still abandoned on the table, when the front door clicks open.
Great.Company.
Just what my anxiety ordered.
Sam’s voice hits first—loud, cheerful, like someone’s turned the volume up to eleven. “We’re back!”
I sit up a little straighter, instantly feeling like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t, even though the most scandalous thing happening is Pete showing me a video of a dog that can moonwalk.
James appears behind Sam, cool as ever, jacket over one arm, that unreadable expression still fixed to his face. Pete smiles, stands, says something like “Hey! You’re back early,” in that breezy tone people use when they mean the opposite.
Sam drops into the armchair like he owns the place. “Date night wasfab. You’d have loved it, Tom. Italian place, all candles and carbs. I’m telling you, nothing says romance like a bread basket refill.”
“Sounds nice,” I say politely, because that’s what you say, even though what Iwantto say is: “Cool, thanks for crashing my evening, could you maybe vanish now so I can get back to pretending this is a normal relationship?”
Pete claps his hands together softly. “I’ll grab more wine.”
“Good idea,” James says, his voice low. Then he follows Pete out of the room.
And now it’s just me and Sam.
He grins, wide and wolfish.
“So,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Do you, um… live here too?”
He smirks. “Not officially. More of a frequent flyer. I have my own place, but it’s boring. And who wants to be boring when you can be here?”
