We both laugh. It helps. “He’s just been… out a lot,” I say, careful. “A lot of dates.”
“That’s allowed,” Craig says. “We’re not a cautionary tale.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “Just checking in. Because I care. And because I’m nosy.”
Craig’s expression loosens; the lines around his eyes go kind. “He’s okay. We’re okay. Work is intense. He’s just getting out and about, enjoying himself. But I always know what he’s up to, who he’s with.”
“Do you?” I say, not meaning it to come out with so much judgement.
“Why do you say that?” he stares at me, brow furrowing.
“Oh, no… I just… I think…” I fumble, unable to formulate normal person sentences.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Craig asks, lightly, like a joke, but also not. I hate him a little for being so good at his job.
Tell him now.
I go to open my mouth.
“Hello?” Phil’s voice. Warm, normal,Phil. He strolls in, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped like a magazine advert.
“That was quick,” Craig says, kissing his cheek.
“Yeah, not quite what I thought it was going to be.” Phil grins at me.
“So, no railing tonight then?” I ask.
Phil whacks me playfully over the back of the head. “You wish, handsome. Where’s the wine?”
I clock a glint in Craig’s eye. Something’s on his mind.
The night continues. Craig pours another glass. Phil jokes about guillotines. It all sounds normal.
But under it — something hums.
A tension like static before a storm.
Three people, one table, and too many truths waiting for someone to break first.
Chapter 46
TOM
We’re lying side by side, the duvet a tangled suggestion of order. The light outside has that flat, end-of-afternoon flare where everything looks hazy.
For a while, neither of us speaks. There’s the hum of the fridge downstairs, the tick of the radiator, the tiny sound of Buster licking his paw somewhere in the hall. It’s the kind of quiet that feels earned.
We don’t mean to end up here.
It starts with coffee. It always does. Coffee, and his half-smile when I open the door. Then coffee becomes sitting on the sofa, and sitting becomes shoulders brushing, and shoulders brushing becomes, well, gravity.
And then, I’m in bed with Pete having a wonderful afternoon of sweaty, enthusiastic sex.
Pete stares at the ceiling like he’s trying to memorise it. “Sorry, I didn’t intend for this to happen,” he says eventually.
“You’re sorry?”
“Oh no, not at all. Just one of those things I felt obliged to say,” he says, grinning.
