‘I don’t know how to promise something I haven’t worked out yet,’ he said.
Marcus swallowed. That, at least, he could understand.
A sound came from the garden—the soft chuff of Atlas shifting. Both men turned at once.
Atlas had risen to his feet and was sniffing along the little strip of grass beneath the front window. He moved slowly, nose low, taking in the scent of the cottage, the dust sheets, the paint tin, the wisteria, the place Marcus was trying to make his own.
Then he walked to the front step.
Marcus held his breath.
Rowan did not move.
Atlas sniffed the threshold, then sat.
Not beside Rowan.
Not behind him.
At Marcus’s front door.
For a moment, the entire lane seemed to hush around them.
Marcus looked at Rowan.
Rowan’s face had changed. Pride was there, yes, but so was something softer. Something almost painful.
‘He chose that,’ Marcus said quietly.
‘I know.’
‘He doesn’t usually?’
Rowan shook his head. ‘Not new thresholds. Not unless I ask.’
Marcus looked back at Atlas, sitting beneath the peeling blue-grey door as if he had decided it was a place worth waiting.
His chest tightened.
‘Well,’ Marcus said, because emotion was pressing too hard behind his ribs, ‘clearly he has excellent taste in property.’
Rowan huffed a laugh, but his eyes stayed on Atlas.
‘He feels safe here,’ Marcus added.
Rowan’s gaze moved to him then.
The look between them was too much. Too honest. Marcus almost reached for a joke, but stopped himself.
‘That doesn’t mean you have to,’ he said softly.
Rowan’s throat moved.
Marcus picked up the sandpaper again, needing something to do with his hands. ‘I’m not going to chase you, Rowan. I need you to know that. I like you. More than is probably sensible considering the state of my front door and my emotional stability.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘But I can’t be your almost.’
‘Almost?’
‘Almost chosen. Almost trusted. Almost part of your life until the next contract comes along.’
