“You missed it twice.”
“That was a trap.”
“You stepped into it willingly.”
She glares at me. “I hate that you’re smug about this.”
“I hate that you’re pretending it didn’t matter.”
That lands harder than I care to admit.
Silence again. Thicker now. Less combative. Too honest.
Chloe exhales slowly. “This was a mistake.”
“Yes,” I agree. “A massive one.”
“We reset,” she says. “We are going back to not being in each other’s life. After the feature article.”
“Yup, separate lives,” I echo.
She straightens, the movement all armour and competence. “I’ve got enough for the feature. More than enough, actually. Someone from the paper will be in touch to let you know when it’s running.”
“Okay,” I say.
It is the most neutral word I own.
She nods once, already halfway gone. “Thank you. For the access. And the… explanations.”
She shoulders her bag, pauses like she might say something else, then thinks better of it. “Good night, Tom.”
“Good night, Chloe.”
She leaves. The door closes with a finality that feels entirely too loud for an empty restaurant.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the stainless steel counter like it might offer guidance. It does not.
I start cleaning because it is something to do with my hands. Wiping down surfaces. Sanitising. Erasing the evidence of our romp on the kitchen counter with methodical care.
My head is a riot. Professional boundaries. Newspaper ethics. The fact that she kissed me. The fact that I did not stop her. The fact that I would do it again without hesitation and that terrifies me far more than the shouting ever did.
When the counter is spotless, when there is nothing left to betray us except memory, I drop the sponge and spray bottle into the sink with a clatter that echoes through the kitchen.
“Fuck,” I shout.
The word bounces off steel and tile and settles back on me like an accusation.
What the fuck happened this evening?
Chapter 6
Chloe
The flat is silentin the specific, judgmental way that only happens after midnight. Not peaceful. Not calm. Just quietly accusatory.
I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and stand there for a second too long, bag still on my shoulder, heart still doing an impression of a malfunctioning appliance. My body has not caught up with the decision my mouth made earlier. My brain is sprinting laps. My dignity is somewhere between the restaurant and the car park, possibly hiding behind a wheelie bin.
“Do not,” I tell myself. “Absolutely do not unpack this right now.”
