Pete, for all his chaos, brings warmth into this house, softens the edges, makes it feel less like a fortress.
Tom could ruin that.
Not necessarily because he wants to, but because that’s what strangers do. They bring chaos in their pockets; they leave mess in their wake.
Yes, Tom comes with his own benefits but are they worth it to risk the status quo.
Sam closes his fingers around the keys. If he’s going to protect what they have, he needs to know who Tom really is. Not the version Pete gushes about after three glasses of wine. Not the charming Tesco meet narrative.
The real Tom.
He shrugs on his jacket, slips out into the night. On the street outside, Sam presses the key until a car parked alongside the house beeps. Door open, Sam slides behind the wheel of Tom’s car. The Sat Nav pings awake, Tom’s home address saved in its memory. Sam smirks. People are so careless.
The roads are quiet, slick with rain, streetlights glinting off the tarmac like watchful eyes. Sam drums his fingers against the steering wheel as he drives, every bump and turn making his mind work faster.
He grew up with chaos. Group homes, temporary placements, foster parents who treated him like a guest they couldn’t wait to leave. Every time he got comfortable, it ended. Another bag packed, another move. He learned early on that stability wasn’t something you found—it was something you fought for. Something you built with your own hands and guarded like treasure.
This house is the closest thing he’s ever had to a permanent address. And Tom? Tom is a risk. Sam isn’t about to watch it all goup in flames because Pete has a weakness for sad men with nice smiles.
He pulls up outside Tom’s place, kills the engine, and just sits there for a moment. The house is dark, quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.
Sam slips the key into the lock and turns it, slow and careful. The door opens with a faint creak that makes his skin prickle.
Inside, the house smells faintly of laundry powder and cat litter. It’s tidy, almost too tidy, like Tom lives here alone and hasn’t had anyone around to make a mess.
Sam walks inside, closes the door behind him, and listens.
Nothing.
Good.
He moves quickly, methodical, pulling the small case from his bag. Cameras. Tiny, wireless, easy to hide. He sets to work, moving through the house like a shadow, placing them in corners, above doorways, tucked onto bookshelves.
It’s not about spying, not really.
It’s about understanding.
About seeing the truth of someone when they think no one’s watching. People are always honest when they think they’re alone.
Halfway through, he hears something.
A noise — soft, low, from the kitchen maybe.
Sam freezes, hand slipping into his pocket, fingers closing around the knife he always carries. Just in case.
He takes a step forward, slow, quiet. Another noise — closer now. A shuffle.
Sam pushes the kitchen door open with the tip of the knife, muscles tensed—
And there’s a cat, sitting on the counter, blinking at him like he’s the one being rude.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes, lowering the knife. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, you little bastard.”
The cat yawns, hops down, and wanders out like it owns the place.
Sam exhales, shaky, and gets back to work.
By the time he’s finished, the cameras are live, transmitting. He can watch from anywhere now. Keep an eye on things. Keep control.
