“Where being me means making bad jokes when I’m nervous and accidentally trauma-dumping over dinner. Then replaying alternate versions of conversations in my head for the next 10-15 years.”
Pete laughs, squeezes my hand, and the tension in my chest loosens just enough for me to exhale. Maybe he’s right. Maybe James is just being protective. I overthink things — I know this, Craig tells me that all the time. But still, the conversation plays on loop in my head, James’ voice smooth and deliberate:
You’d be wise to think about whether you’re prepared for that.
Not exactly the bedtime story you want before staying over.
Pete moves to grab his T-shirt, and that’s when I see it — a faint ring of blue and purple around his wrist, like a shadow that doesn’t belong.
“Pete,” I say quietly, catching his arm before I can stop myself. “What’s this?”
He glances down like he’s just remembered it’s there. “Nothing. Banged it on a door.”
“It doesn’t look like a door bang.”
“Because you’re a door bang expert?” he teases, but his voice is a little too light.
“Pete.”
He hesitates, then shrugs, the grin slipping a little. “James and I… had a disagreement earlier. It got a bit heated. He grabbed my wrist, that’s all.”
My stomach twists. “That’s all?”
“Tom.” Pete’s voice is soft now, and he takes my hand this time. “It’s fine. It was just a row. Forget it.”
Forget it? How am I supposed to forget it when the image is burned into my brain?
“And does he do that often?”
“Do what?”
“Grab you? Hurt you?”
Pete shakes his hands in the air, pulling away from me. “No, I mean, not really, no.”
His answer offers me no level of comfort.
“He can just be a bit passionate about things sometimes.”
“I’m not sure, if leaving bruises on your wrists can be classed as passion.”
“Look, it’s nothing; forget it,” he says, trying to close this down.
But I’m not ready to end this conversation yet, so I take another approach.
“I used to say the same about my ex, Daniel, after an argument. ‘It’s fine, forget it.’ But it wasn’t fine.”
Pete’s expression shifts — sad, then sympathetic. “I’m not Daniel.”
“I know.You’renot Daniel at all.”
“Then trust me. Tonight is about you and me. We don’t have to make this heavier than it already is.”
I nod, but inside, my head is loud.
Because itisheavy.
I like Pete. No, I more than like him — he’s the first person I’ve let myself want in years. But every new thing I learn about this house, this life, feels like a step into deeper water.
