The kiss lingers, tender and devastating all at once, and something inside me shifts. Not breaks. Not burns.
Opens.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let go. The space between us hums, the moment delicate and charged.
“Still not your type?”
I can’t even form a sound.
My fingers stay tangled in his shirt. My breath comes shallow and uneven. My eyes stay clamped shut like I can hold onto the kiss just by refusing to open them.
Silence.
“Erm… Hayley?”
His voice is tender now.
“Eyes open.”
I blink, heart hammering. When I meet his gaze, there’s a spark there, not teasing exactly, but knowing. His mouth curves, just slightly, like he’s proud of himself.
“Say it,” he says quietly.
“Say what?” My voice comes out barely more than a breath.
“That I’m your type.”
I go to respond.
Then…
A dramatic cough explodes from the hedgerow.
We both jerk apart like guilty teenagers.
Peacock emerges from behind a rose bush, wine glass in one hand, vape pen in the other, mask pushed up onto his forehead. But this isn’t the Peacock we know, no strut, no jazz hands, no feathers metaphorically or otherwise. His doublet is unfastened at the collar, revealing a triangle of tanned chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair. The eyeliner is smudged, his hair slightly mussed, and for the first time all weekend, he looks… normal.
Worse. He looks good.
“Carry on,” he says, voice stripped of its usual theatrics, low and smooth, exhaling smoke in a lazy curl. “I was just enjoying Act VI: Tongues and Tensions from my private box. Five stars. Minimal cheese this time. Refreshing.”
Tyler groans quietly. I want the gravel to swallow me whole.
Peacock takes a long drag, then lets the smoke out in a sigh, leaning against the balustrade like a man who’s seen some things.
Without the glitter and the performance, he’s suddenly older, broader, the kind of man you’d actually notice across a bar for reasons that have nothing to do with his wardrobe.
“Honestly,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass, “you two are the only ones who haven’t made me want to hurl a swan at someone this weekend.”
“You’re… smoking,” I manage, dumbfounded.
He glances down at the vape pen with a ghost of a smile. “Honey, if you think I’m getting through this Tudor nightmare without nicotine and Pinot Grigio, you’ve seriously overestimated my commitment to immersive theatre.”
I squint at him. “Wait…”
“Are you…” Tyler frowns. “Are you American?”
Something flickers across Peacock’s face. Not surprise. Amusement.
