He’s protecting himself from the moment I inevitably pull away from him.
“You’re going to be late for your meetings,” Archie says. “Go be intimidating and competent. I have an appointment at the hospital this afternoon, so I need to make sure I spend enough quality time with Netflix before I go.”
His voice has returned to something approaching normal. The consummate performer, the costume back on. Show’s over, nothing to see here.
His grin is almost convincing. But his hand is gripping the mug hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
I could push. I could refuse to leave. I could tell Archie I’m in love with him, that I want to stay in London permanently, build a life with him.
But I can see he’s not ready to hear it.
Not yet.
“Yeah,” I say. “I should get going. Good luck with your appointment.”
I leave my coffee half-finished on the counter. Archie doesn’t look up as I go to get dressed.
My mind is swirling as I catch an Uber.
I stare out the window at London sliding past—gray sky, red buses, the relentless churning of a city that doesn’t care about your feelings—and try to untangle what just happened.
Archie wants me. I’m sure of that. The connection we had last night, that was real. The way he went still and silent when I was inside him, like I’d found a place beneath all his noise and restless energy that he doesn’t show anyone else. That was real.
But wanting someone and being ready for someone are two different things.
I think about what Elizabeth said. “You look after our boy.”
Maybe looking after him doesn’t mean I should be pushing down every wall he’s built. Maybe it means being patient enough to let him take them down himself.
I don’t know how to be patient. I’m someone who identifies problems and solves them. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.
But Archie isn’t a problem to be solved.
I pull out my phone and check my calendar. My PA Tara has booked me a new client consultation this morning with someone seeking strategic advisory on an expansion into the European market. The notes are sparse:Referral from Gus Wilson in Conference Room B at ten a.m.
The conference rooms I rent are in a serviced office building near Liverpool Street. They are clean and functional, the kind of space designed for people who need to project legitimacy without the overhead of a permanent office. I found the space during my first week in London, and it’s served me well. It gives a professional backdrop for Zoom calls with US clients and provides a meeting space for London-based clients.
I arrive fifteen minutes early because I’m always fifteen minutes early. It’s a habit born from the same place as my suits and the polished shoes. For a kid who grew up with nothing, I overcompensated with punctuality because it was the one thing that cost nothing.
I set up my laptop and arrange my notes, pouring two glasses of water from the carafe on the side table.
But I’m doing all these things on autopilot while my brain continues to replay the image of Archie’s carefully blank face in the kitchen this morning and how he’d clutched his coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Don’t ruin this.
What does he think this is? What does he think we have that’s so fragile it can’t withstand a conversation?
I check my phone. There are no texts from Archie, which is unusual. Normally by now he’d have sent me at least three messages—a photo of a pigeon that he thinks looks like Mother Teresa, a random fact about medieval cheese-making, an unsolicited ranking of British biscuits from best to most disappointing.
The silence is louder than any of his noise.
I put my phone face-down on the table and try to focus. I have a client walking through that door in three minutes, and I need to be Leo Brennan, strategic consultant, not Leo Brennan, man who just realized he’s in love with someone afraid of being loved.
I straighten my tie and open a fresh page in my notebook.
At exactly ten o’clock, there’s a knock on the door.
I stand and button my jacket. It’s a reflex, my armor clicking into place. Then I cross the room.
