He leans back, closing his eyes. A flicker of memory slips through: a boy lying awake in a damp bedroom, listening to arguments through thin walls. The crash of plates. The drunkenfootsteps on the stairs. He’s never shaken that sound, the heavy drag of boots coming closer. It taught him early that safety is never guaranteed.
Inside, the house is dim. The curtains are drawn even though it’s still daylight. Pete drops his keys in the bowl by the door and kicks off his boots, careful not to make too much noise.
The silence is uneasy, the kind that comes from someone choosing not to speak rather than having nothing to say. He knows better than to break it.
He moves through the rooms quietly, like a guest in his own home. In the kitchen, he fills a glass of water, listening to the faint hum of the fridge. The normality of it feels ridiculous against the knot tightening in his stomach.
Pete runs a hand over his face. He doesn’t usually feel this restless after meeting someone. But Tom won’t leave his head.
At home, things are strained. Tense. He never knows if today will be calm or explosive. Sometimes he wonders how much longer he can keep juggling everything before it all topples.
Pete leans back against the kitchen counter, staring out at the garden.
Meeting Tom makes him think about the cracks in his life, the ones getting wider by the day. Maybe because Tom seemed like the kind of person who asks questions and actually listens to the answers. That’s dangerous, in a way. Comforting, but dangerous.
Pete lets out a slow breath.
On the countertop next to him, he notices a flash of red.
Blood.
Dried. From last night’s incident.
He must have missed a bit when he was frantically cleaning.
The smear is thin but unmistakable, a rusty line against the pale stone. He stares at it too long, heart thudding, before grabbing a cloth and the strongest spray he can find. He scrubs, hard, until the cloth turns pink. The smell of chemicals fills the kitchen, sharp and acrid, masking the copper tang that still lingers in his head.
He presses harder. The cloth squeaks over the surface, the stain vanishing inch by inch. He keeps going long after it’s gone, polishing until the stone shines, until there’s no trace left—not of blood, not of last night, not of anything.
Because that’s the point. No traces.
Upstairs, a voice calls his name. Sharp. Cutting. The sound slices through the silence like glass.
Pete stiffens. The knot in his stomach coils tighter. He pushes himself upright and pockets his phone.
“Coming,” he says, forcing his tone to stay light.
But his hand is still damp from the cloth, and when he looks down, he swears he can see a smear of red along his skin.
He rubs it against his jeans, hard.
And then he climbs the stairs.
Chapter 5
TOM
I lie sprawled on my bed, one arm folded beneath my head, the other clutching my phone like it’s a lifeline. My room is dim except for the golden spill of the bedside lamp, casting long shadows across the pictures on my wall.
My phone finally buzzes; it’s Craig calling. I answer immediately, grateful for the distraction.
“Alright, lover boy,” Craig says, voice warm and teasing down the line. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet all day.”
I grin despite myself. “You make me sound like I’ve got some sordid secret.”
“You do. It’s called a crush. Now come on, give me everything.”
So, I do. I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, recounting the whole strange, wonderful encounter with Pete at Tesco. Craig interrupts constantly with questions, gasps, exaggerated noises of approval.
