The kind that sayswe’ll see.
When we pull back, he rests his forehead against mine.
“One rule,” I say.
He groans softly. “Already.”
“No sex in cars,” I continue. “Ever.”
He blinks. “That seems oddly specific.”
“I don’t trust the Cumbria Times not to be hiding in a hedge.”
He laughs, full and easy, and kisses me once more, quick and smiling.
“Deal,” he says. “Beds only. Preferably indoors.”
“And maybe,” I add, because apparently I am committed to testing boundaries today, “some kitchens. Possibly bathrooms.”
He considers this with mock seriousness. “I think that’s reasonable.”
“Really.”
“All over the house,” he says. “Just not in public.”
“Excellent,” I say. “I like a man with priorities.”
He chuckles and then he pulls me into him.
Not urgent. Not possessive. Just arms around me, solid and warm, his chin resting against my hair like it belongs there.
And that’s when it hits.
The relief. The exhaustion. The fact that I didn’t break. The fact that he showed up anyway. The fact that this is no longer theoretical or whispered or hidden behind editorials and radio interviews.
All of it arrives at once, heavy and bright and slightly terrifying.
I press my face into his jumper and breathe him in, grounding myself in wool and warmth and the utterly unremarkable miracle of being held.
He tightens his arms just a fraction, like he can feel it.
“It’s a lot,” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I manage. “But… good.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.
We stand there in my living room while Hadrian finishes his dinner with aggressive enthusiasm, the world outside carrying on as usual.
Inside, I let myself feel it.
All of it.
Epilogue
Tom
Chloe’s flat is indistress.
