Fantasy and Putts - t.h. series [18+]

Meta-Fore of Love - part four

words » 17k

warnings » she gets kind of angsty, pals ; David, although I do love him at the end of this one; smut: they get handsy at one point but nothing too explicit

~ ⛳️ ~

The pitter patter of the rain leaves drop-shaped doodles on your bedroom window while you're getting ready for your first day at work. It's way too early on a cold Tuesday morning, and your alarm took a quite harsh hit when it went off at ass o'clock, but you wanted to go through the whole deal of getting ready without rushing. So here you are, in a decent, comfy outfit, properly showered, hair and make-up ready. Everything for your first shift to be perfect.

You make a quick stop by the bathroom again to hang your towel on its rack, and on your way out, you spot something that you haven't seen in a while. There's a pair of socks by the boys' laundry basket. You shake your head at it.

The odd part is that you've been alone in the flat for the last couple of days. Even the group chat was awfully quiet the whole time. You did find yourself wondering if the boys were talking in the other group chat. It set a somewhat bitter rhythm to your heart, so you tried to settle it by focusing on planning things for your channel instead of on them.

Tuwaine never really talked to you unless it was a group thing, so that was fine. The Harries came and went from the flat whenever they pleased and you barely caught sight of them, but Tom vanished completely after Saturday night. The next morning, you found a note from him on the fridge door saying he'd gone out for a jog and that he'd probably end up spending the rest of the day at his mum's. And then you didn't see him again. It looks like he's back now, and his return must be recent because you don't remember seeing the socks there when you went in for your shower a while ago.

There's a loud noise in the kitchen that grabs your attention as you're walking through the door to the living room. Surely enough, when you check it out, Tom's out there in joggers and a baggy t-shirt, humming a song under his breath as he moves bowls of different sizes around and checks whatever he has going on on the counter.

"Hey."

He turns on his heels immediately, a kiwi in one hand, knife in the other. "Y/n! Good morning!"

"You're bright and shiny," you mock his cheerful greeting.

Tom laughs. "Yeah, sorry. I woke up early to work out and, um, yeah. Anyway, how'd you sleep?"

"Fine, I guess, but, uh," you hesitate, peeking around his torso and seeing the remains of at least three different types of fruit on a cutting board on the counter. "Where the heck have you been?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've disappeared since Saturday night."

"Oh. That." He chuckles and swivels back around to keep chopping. "I came back late on Sunday and have been around the whole time."

You notice a couple of mugs on the table though the kettle is turned off, but if you look closer, you can tell it's releasing a bit of smoke at the top.

"You've been in the flat since Sunday?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't see you yesterday," you say, supporting both hands on the back of a chair. "At all. Didn't hear you in the bathroom, nothing. What the fuck?"

"I, um, to be fair, I wasn't feeling the greatest, so I spent most of the time in bed," he says. His back is still turned to you so you have no idea how to read him just yet.

"Is everything okay?" you ask, genuinely curious.

"Yeah, everything's fine." Tom grins over his shoulder, whirling around next with a big bowl filled with small pieces of fruit.

"Was it because of your leg?"

Tom blinks. "My what?"

"Your leg. You said it was acting up the other day?"

"Oh, right. Yeah yeah yeah, it's fine now. I'm still doing that thing this week, but I guess it's getting better. Somehow."

"Sounds like a good kind of miracle," you joke.

"Suppose so." Tom smiles seemingly calmer now. "Breakfast? I made a fruit salad. I'm calling it 'pre-first day at work boost' and would love to know what you think. Thought it'd be nice to send you off to work with a good energy boost."

"You're talking way too fast for half five in the morning," you point out, only half joking.

"Sorry," Tom says with a chuckle, sending you a gentle smile as he puts the bowl down on the table and wipes his hands on his fading yellow t-shirt.

"'S fine, but, uh, I'm not having breakfast at home."

"Oh." Tom blinks at you. You see how he's using two of his fingers to scratch the top left side of his chest over a brand logo that looks like a compass rose.

"Yeah, we're going to have breakfast at the Den before we open the doors at seven. Will gonna be looking at the full breakfast menu, make sure I know what I'll be prepping and serving, that sort of thing."

"Of course, that makes sense," Tom says, much slower now. Shoulders slumped forward as he opens a cupboard to his left. "But at least take a cup of tea with you. It'll wake you up on the way there."

"Sure." You smile softly, pointing at the take-away cup you usually choose.

There's a bit of silence while you watch Tom make you tea. He looks unsettled but also satisfied with doing this. You wonder what the fuck is making him act so strange. It's not uncommon that he makes you tea, but there's something odd about his pose today. A different aura, of sorts. Something you can't really pinpoint in the few moments he takes until the cup is full.

"Do you need a ride?"

"No," you say carefully, checking your phone just to make sure you haven't missed a message. "I don't, thanks. David's picking me up. He lives only a few streets east of here."

"Oh great."

Tom twists the lid of the cup into place with a harsh snap of his wrist, but doesn't hand it to you just yet. You lean over the table to fetch it, but he shushes you softly and swats at your hand, so you retreat and watch. He turns back around to open another cupboard above his head. Who knows what he's going to do, so you sigh and look down at your phone waiting for the text that will start off your day. When you look back up, Tom's handing you the cup at last.

It has one of your favorite biscuits on top.

"To sweeten up your day," he says, tapping the curve of the lid with his thumb.

"Thanks." You grab the cup and put it on top of your phone, holding both items in one hand and using the other to point at the cookie. "Is this a bribe?"

Tom gives you a confused, lopsided look. "No, why?"

"The socks."

"Oh no," he mutters to himself. "Fuck, I knew I was forgetting something."

You giggle. "Don't worry, they're still waiting for you by the laundry basket."

You both smile at each other, but the oddness of this morning lingers to Tom's expression. He's closer now, but you still can't read it or figure out its meaning.

"What are you going to do today?" you ask him before you over-analyze everything about his stance right now.

"Breakfast. Then I'll probably go out for a jog—"

"Uh, it's raining," you point out.

"Really?" Tom looks out the window. "I could swear I saw the weather forecast and it said it'd be cloudy at most..."

"Guess it changed." You shrug. "Should you even be jogging? I mean, with your leg and all..."

"Yeah, it's fine, don't worry." He smiles, though it seems sort of sad as he looks down at his hands before he glances up again. The moment he opens his mouth to say something else, your phone vibrates in your hand and you peer at the screen. You find a text from David saying he's downstairs.

"That's David," you tell Tom, noticing how his expression falls again. He tries to disguise it with a nod and a weak smile, but you hold his gaze and ask, "I feel like you want to tell me something..."

"What? No, I don't," he dismisses you, stepping closer. "Just trying to figure out what I should do today. You know how horrid I get when I'm not busy."

"Right," you smile. Tom has always struggled with time and boredom when he doesn't have any work. You've seen him gloomier when he's at home for long periods of time than when he's around in between jobs. It sort of makes sense, but there's plenty of things he can do with his time off. "You could, maybe, if you'd like, try to pry anything out of Harrison and Harry? This whole secrecy around their project is getting kind of annoying."

Tom laughs. "You think I haven't tried that? I even offered to go as their handyman one day, and they gave me a big, blunt no."

Your phone buzzes a second time and you take a look at the notification. It's David, saying he's double parked and you need to come downstairs fast. "I've to go. Please don't injure your other leg while I'm gone."

"I won't, I won't," Tom says, shoulders shaking with a bit of laughter. "But hey, don't go without at least a kiss goodbye."

You let him, of course, but his lips barely touch yours and smack away almost immediately. He's cradling your jaw with one hand though, which is a hopeful sign. A small gesture of normalcy, you can call it that. He smiles too, softly but a little tremulous, then says, "Have a good first day."

"Thank you," you respond, frowning because you can't read him at all right now and you really, really wish you could. "You, too. Bye."

You hear his typically faint 'bye' as you step out of the kitchen.

∗

"Okay, okay, slow down," you say, fingers pressed on your temples as you blink dumbly at the screen in front of you. David has been showing you the software at the register and how it syncs with the pads you'll be carrying around to take orders from the customers. It's been at least a good twenty minutes, and you've lost count of how many times you had to reset your own brain.

David practically laughs. "Am I speaking too fast?"

"No, no," you assert. "If anything, I'm listening too slowly."

"I don't believe that's possible, but alright," David says amusedly. "I'm truly sorry. I know it's a bit tricky. Beth did warn you, though."

"Yeah, she did. Uff." You groan as a joke, gesturing for him to continue what he was saying.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to wrap your head around it, but you blame it on the early hour and the crowdedness from the flood of careful yet intense instructions. Things feel a little intimidating even though it's just you and him in an empty pub, but perhaps that's what is not clicking in your head.

This is what you've been doing for the past hour. David started by showing you around the pub and all the areas, kitchen and lounge and maintenance room included. He introduced you to most members of the team's photographs in the employee board, a collection of pictures and postcards from random places across the planet and a few scribbled down post-it notes. Then he started sharing a few of his best practices to jot things down for clarity and in case someone needed to take over an order from you for whatever reason.

"Things I had to teach myself, but that really do help any new member that joins the team," he said at the time. Right now, he's staring at you curiously while you try not to stress too much at all the information. "Do you want me to run through it all one more time?"

"No, it's better not. Feels like I won't learn anything like this. I need to put it into practice, that sort of thing."

"Alright, we'll wait for the first customers then." He smiles. "Let's dive into that welcome kit, shall we?"

You grin and agree with a hum.

The welcome kit is this medium sized basket that David brought in from one of the lockers in the lounge room. You had no idea what it was when you first saw it, but now he says, "It's a little present we give to anyone who joins us so that they'll get acquainted with the food we sell here. Cocktails and spirits are available everywhere, but the sub menu is the star of the house."

In the basket, you find a small book of recipes, for both sandwiches and cocktails. "At least for the ones with no secret ingredients," David says with a playful expression, making you chuckle with him. You'd figured that much to be honest. One simply does not share any secrets of the trade with just any newcomer.

"That," he adds, even though you hadn't realized you'd said anything. "And Schacter —he's our master of subs, remember?— He would serve my head on a platter to our customers if I shared them with you. He should be getting here any minute now."

"Alright..."

The point of the basket is that you'll enjoy the flavors you'll soon be serving morning after morning at the Den. It even includes a few samples of all the ingredients required to prepare some of those recipes they openly shared with you.

A few minutes before opening time, this tall bloke walks through the back door. David introduces him as Brad Schacter, Master of Subs, but the dude only really greets you with a few grunted words. They sound sort of nice, or perhaps it's just wishful thinking, but it was probably just his voice that was too deep.

"Schacter is— Look, he's incredible with the food. Not so skilled with the people," David says as soon as he disappears into the kitchen. You grin in response because that's relatable. Anything is easier to deal with than people.

"Every single item in that menu came from that big head. Oh! And don't be scared of those grunts of his, by the way. That's him in a good mood. He sort of, uh— how do I put this?" David hesitates. "He speaks through his food, not words, if you know what I mean?" You nod mostly for the sake of it. "It gets easier to be around him, don't worry."

"Beth said I wouldn't be seeing a lot of him anyway," you recall something Beth had said during one of her smoke breaks a few days ago.

"That sounds about right." David laughs.

The next few hours are a whirlwind. David and what little you saw of Schacter through the service door that's been open ajar the whole shift are a blur of energy to watch, making you feel like you're moving in slow motion by comparison. You're taught how to greet customers, how to read the table chart and interpret all those numbers and codes you'd always wondered about in similar hospitality settings. How to commit things to memory by using simple tricks to sort all the extra info. How to navigate between the tables with ease, without looking like you're dragging your feet or soaring on clouds.

You dutifully follow David's guidance and lock everything away in your brain. Using little green highlighted checkmarks for anything that's clear enough and big red crosses highlighted in gold lightning-like flashes for things you still need to clarify, but eventually you're free to head home.

Your feet are burning hot in your shoes from all the moving around, nearly as much as your head from all the information you're going to have to process in the next few days.

Once you unlock the front door, the flat sounds empty and quiet, but you welcome it after the constant buzz of the shift at an already quite popular breakfast pub. The first move is to drop the basket in the kitchen, leaving it alone for now. You head for the couch and lie there on your back, hands covering your eyes with a big smile on your face. Images from this morning blur out under your lids as you shut down work mode and activate home mode.

"Someone's very happy. Should I be worried?" someone says to your left. "Tom, for fuck's sake, leave the poor girl alone. We're all home."

You don't need to look to know that it's Harry. His thick voice and dry tone gives him away no matter what. You grab a pillow from where a couple of them are trapped between your thigh and the back of the couch, and throw it at what you think is the vicinity of where you'd heard him chastising you.

Peeking over the back cushions, you find him walking towards the big window, sliding it open until the breeze and the street noises filter into the flat. The pillow is lost somewhere behind the couch, you can barely see one of the corners when you look for it.

You can't be bothered to wonder what Harry's doing in the flat, to be honest. The answer is probably going to be the same as it's ever been. The damn photography project. The best kept secret in the whole world. Since he sits down in one of the lounge chairs you put out in the balcony for the warmer weather, you decide to joke around with him to see if this is the time when he'll reveal anything about that particular enigma. It's been months of knowing nothing. It's about time one of them spills.

"So, Harry," you start, stepping barefoot into the balcony. Back leaning against the wall, a few steps away from his chair so as not to crowd him. "How's your project going?"

He takes a sip of what you assume to be tea from the mug he's holding between his hands and says, "Still not allowed to tell you anything."

"I know, I know, but c'mon, maybe just a hint?"

"Nope."

"Are you under contract or something?"

"Mhmm. An oath."

Your face contorts in confusion. "You made an oath?"

"Yeah."

"Wiiiiiith..." you pry. It's true that this isn't your style of getting information, but it's the best you can do right now. You don't need to know, not really, but it's such a big mystery that you can't help but want to scratch that mental itch away.

"Harrison, obviously. Who else?" Harry says, looking up. Your reflection in his sunglasses glares back at you with the same amount of frustration that you've been feeling over everyone being kept out of the loop about this.

"Hm." You ponder if you could maybe slip in a few questions as to the nature of the project. It's highly unlike that Harry would say something inadvertently, it's really fucking hard to extract any information from him unless he wants you to know, but you have to fucking try.

"Harry, c'mon, just tell us something," you insist. "Doesn't have to be in detail. Like, is it another short? Or a film? A show? Ohhh, maybe a doc?"

He chuckles and drinks some more, shaking his head at you almost in mockery. It's probably innocent, but you can't help but feel like it's targeted much deeper than that.

"I can tell you it's almost over," Harry ends up saying. The mug rests on the arm of the chair, his hand around it for support, and he looks relaxed. Sunglasses on you (you think), fingers drumming a patterned melody on the wood. Unbothered by it all.

"Well, I suppose that's good," you say, adding under your breath but also in a way that he can hear you, "not that it tells me anything."

"You're not supposed to know anything anyway."

"Goddammit, it's impossible to talk to you, mate."

Harry clicks his tongue with a half tilt of his head and continues drinking his tea, grinning to himself.

Thankfully, you spot someone coming into the living room. When you realize it's Harrison, you slip back into the flat and follow him into the kitchen asking the exact same questions you just asked Harry.

The answer to every single one of them is always the same.

"No."

Even to the ones to which it doesn't make any sense.

"Harry!" You huff with a heavy frown, making him laugh. "What, you think I can't keep a secret?"

Harrison puts the jug of water back in the fridge and closes the door. He gazes at you sweetly and says, "No, I know you can, but that's not the issue here. We just really, really can't tell you."

"That's seriously fucked up. I'm your friend."

"Sorry." He sends you that bright, toothy grin of his as he walks past you drinking from his glass of water.

Not wanting to give up yet, you rummage through your mind to try and figure out what could be the one question that he simply could not say no to. The one that he either answers with the truth or anything he says makes it seem even sketchier. Sadly, your mind is a complete blank as you march behind him back into the living room.

You see Harry peeking over the top of his sunglasses when you're close enough to where he's still chilling on the balcony. When he sits back in his chair, you remember something you once asked Tom about them. And you have no idea what makes you say it, but you blurt out, "Are you two fucking?"

"What?" Harrison stops in his tracks. Harry doesn't seem to have heard you or at least he doesn't react.

Grinning, you suck in a breath to repeat your question since it's very much a plausible reason for them to spend so much time together in and out of the flat, by day and by night, but the front door unlocks loudly. It's Tom, who walks in carrying his gym bag on his shoulder.

"Hey, gorgeousss," he says, dragging the last letter. "Oh, hey, y/n."

You can't help but chuckle at his silly greeting. It makes perfect sense that he'd start by his old friend rather than by whoever you are in his life. A roommate and friend with a slash of good lay.

Taking a sly look at Harrison, you mutter, "Saved by the big muscle man." He only shakes his head at your comment, forehead shrunk into a frown.

Since they're all home and not busy, you spend the next few hours pestering them about the welcome basket you brought home from the Den. Tom is the least enthusiastic about it, but you don't bother to question it. He's acting just as strange and erratic as this morning. You let it flow and maybe you'll get an answer as to what's going on with him whenever he decides to let you close again. Hopefully tonight. Hopefully.

So for the remainder of the day, you're in the kitchen with the precious ingredients David had warned you about, checking out every step in the small recipe book, and trying to have fun at the same time.

"Please," Harrison gags at some point when you present them with a piece of toast split three-way and ask the boys' opinion on it. "I'm so done with bread for the day. Please remove that from my sight."

"So much drama over a piece of toast, mate," you complain. "Tom?"

"Do I have to?"

Turning to him, his expression is covered in misery and by the time you turn to Harry, he's already on his way to the bathroom or anywhere else, stretching an arm behind himself and flipping you off.

"Screw you, you're all so goddamn weak." You huff and grab the plate from the coffee table. You did just interrupt their tumultuous card game with a snack they didn't ask for, so you go back to the kitchen and let them be.

The problem is that now you have a few untouched toasts and sandwiches and no fucking idea what to do with them. You can't eat them by yourself, and to be fair you can barely stand the smell of bread right now, and they won't last long even if you put them in the fridge, so you need a solution. And you need one fast.

Then you remember that you've volunteered at a community kitchen and that your roommate is a celebrity. Well, somewhat of a celebrity. He has all the perks and a big heart with a tendency to give back to others, so maybe he can help you with this.

"Tom?"

"Please no more toast," the three of them whine at the same time. You find them blinking at you, looking rather desperate, when you waltz into the living room, which makes you laugh. Their little eyes are wide and bright, imploring you not to force feed them anything else.

"Nope," you say, raising your hands in the air. "Fear not. I've come empty-handed, lads."

"Great." Tom sniffles. "What's up?"

So you present them your idea, mentioning Tom's family trust and how his mother might have a few contacts for charities that accept leftover food. It's completely untouched save for when you were preparing the sandwiches, so it should be no problem to find a place that accepts them.

And you were right. It isn't a problem at all. Soon you find yourself surrounded by people you don't know and whose thankful smile fills you with warmth and love, included in a found family where you give whatever you can. All the boys seem happy to help, and you're no different. There's something so pure in the action of giving.

Grins aplenty on the way back home, everyone shares this and that moment that had happened at the Kitchen. Everyone except Tom. Not him. He's driving in silence, having been quiet the whole evening.

Despite your attempts to engage in conversation with him whenever you ran into him in the kitchen, he'd always dismiss you.

"Y'know, some dudes at the Den earlier asked me if I knew you," you started to tell him a small anecdote from work. "Guess they'd seen us there before? Not sure. Though maybe, ha ha, maybe you shouldn't come by the pub anytime soon, who knows if they'll be there again."

"Mhmm, I guess so."

"Not that they were creeps about it, but—"

Yet before you could even finish, Tom excused himself and scurried away through the doorway into the buffet area.

At some point, you just stopped trying.

After dropping off the twins at their parents' house, you ask to be the first in the shower tonight. If you get ready first, you'll have the rest of the night to talk to Tom. If he's been quiet, he probably has good reason to, but things have been strange lately and you want to know what's been going on. You don't remember any particular happening that would've caused any weirdness, so the best option here is to see if he wants to talk about it.

You sit in the armchair in Tom's room waiting for him. Eyes on the window while the flat is quiet, you stare at the lights outside, perceptible through the window due to the lack of blinds or curtains. All fingers rap an impatient off-tune as fast as your brain tries to search for any reason why he's been the way he has. Surely there has to be a proper motive, even if it's an intangible, inexplicable one.

Once you hear approaching steps, you turn to the door.

Tom's figure enters the room at last.

"Hey."

"Oh— uh, hey, what are you doing here? Thought you'd gone to sleep already," Tom says in a mishmash of words. You follow his movements as he goes about the room fetching some clothes to sleep in.

"Nah, I haven't, no. It's only fair that I get to give you a goodnight kiss," you say, nails scratching the sides of the chair. "It's our thing, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," Tom agrees.

"Yeah. Doesn't mean you have to do it every time. It's not like we're a traditional couple, are we?"

At last, Tom throws you a smile over one of his shoulders. Which visibly relax, too.

"Yeah," he sighs, now fully dressed in a loose t-shirt and a pair of shorts. "No, yeah, you're right. Thanks."

"My pleasure."

You get up to kiss him, but he stops you with both hands at the level of his chest.

"Before you do, though—"

"Yeah?"

"There's, um—" he hesitates.

"What?" Tom falls silent again. His eyes are turned to you now, but you can't read much in them at the moment. "Tom, what? You've been awfully quiet today."

"Uh. Yeah." He sighs again, stepping away. "Yeah, I have, haven't I?"

"Is something the matter?" you ask. You're honestly worried at this point. If it was clear before that there was something bothering him, there's no way to hide it right now. Lips pursed, shoulders tense, fingers pattering nervously on his stomach. The signs are all there.

"Kind of, yeah," he says at last. "I've, um, been meaning to talk to you about something."

"Yeah," you stress, "I've noticed." Since he's still only blinking at you, you continue, "You've grown a little weird after you came back from vacation. Well, not immediately after, but almost— did something happen?"

Tom shakes his head.

"You slept with someone?" you check casually, but he shakes his head again and mutters a soft 'no.' "Because you could've, y'know? We're not— whatever it's called, but we're not, so you could've."

It's a bit odd how your chest clutches as the words come out of you. The truth is that he's free to do whatever since there isn't anything exclusive about your deal, but it would hurt if he did so without checking in with you first. Still, you ask, "You regret not doing it then?"

"No, stop, it's nothing like that," he interrupts you. "I don't want to sleep with anyone else right now—"

"Oh."

Tom's eyes widen in a sort of panic. Perhaps at what he said, perhaps at your wordless reaction. It's difficult to pinpoint the actual cause, especially when he starts gesturing and you realize what's the first word that he's going to say.

"There's a but coming, isn't there?" He grows quiet again, shoulders falling in a sigh, eyes brimming with something that you have no idea what it is because he isn't talking to you yet.

Tom blinks at you and steps away to the point where an arm's length wouldn't be enough for you to touch him. He ends up by his dresser, placing his hands on top and staying there with his back turned to you. Shoulders tight and tense. Arms flexed as though he's pressing his hands onto the wood.

"Should I sit down for this?" you ask, pointing at the chair behind you.

"No," he says. When you look at him, he's no longer facing away from you. There's a deep frown crossing half of his forehead, eyes darker from its shadow. "I mean, maybe, yeah, sitting down would be a good idea, but not here. You wanna go outside, maybe? To the balcony? There's seats for both of us at least."

"Sure." You appreciate his proposal. You don't really feel like sitting down and looking up while he says whatever he has to say. The same way you wouldn't want to stare down at him while he talked. The underlying power of the person standing up would be unbearable.

When you're out on the balcony a minute later, sitting on the lounge chairs, side by side, opposing knees sort of bumping into each other, Tom places his elbow on his thigh. You could easily bump yours against his if you wanted. You're close enough right now, but you decide against it in case he finds any threat in so much proximity.

"Alright, I'm listening," you say, resting both hands on your knees. It's the best you can do for now. You don't want to pressure him, despite the obvious downward slope of his shoulders that you so badly want to soothe with kisses. So you wait in silence and wipe underneath your nails until he decides he's ready to talk.

"I, uh, sorta... wanted to apologize for Saturday night," he says. You have no idea why he's talking so slowly and with his eyes on the floor instead of your face.

"Apologize for what?"

"Right. I was, uh, how do I put this," he trails off, naked heel bopping on the tile. "Slightly territorial? Feels like I forced myself on you for a bit there—"

"Hey," you interrupt, moving a hand to his knee to soothe his nervous tick. Tom looks up at you, eyes clouded as the London sky. "For what it's worth, it didn't feel that way to me."

"Uh, good."

The corners of Tom's mouth tug a little bit, but it's barely there when you take a second glance.

"You still deserve an apology. I was a dick," he adds.

"What?" You blink at him and find his face confused all over again.

"What are you talking about?" you say. "No, it was just sex. A bit rougher than usual, I guess, but that doesn't make you a dick."

"It's how I felt." He shrugs. His hand pats the back of yours before it joins the other that's still on his lap, both now piled together and curled in on himself. Tugging lightly on his thumbs, he rubs his lips together a couple of times.

Since he isn't saying much, you try to pry in a way that doesn't feel like it. "I did think you were quiet, yes, and a bit... angry?"

"I was angry."

You pause for a second and study his expression, ignoring the indignant roar of a car down in the street, but there's nothing to analyze in it. He looks normal.

"At me?" you say tentatively, pausing between the two words while you gaze at him with care. The last thing you want is for him to think that he mistreated you when you don't agree with that at all.

"No, not at you," he's quick to say, eyes a little wide and a little scared. "At me."

"What for?" you argue. "Why the fuck were you angry at yourself? I don't remember you doing anything wrong."

"I was, um, y'know? Really possessive over you that night for some reason."

"Possessive?"

"Yeah! Possessive. And it's not my place to be that at all," Tom says, eyes watered down into a blank, then his voice comes out all muffled from him biting on the inside of his bottom lip. "I mean, we're only... you know, doing this, so yeah, like, it just wasn't my place."

"Okay. Look, you're talking in circles here" you stop him and gather his attention. "So we have a thing and you're possessive over me. It's fine. I mean, I'm possessive over you sometimes."

"Uh, no, you're not. Not in the same way at least, but huh."

"Nope. In the same way exactly. I hog pretty much all of your free time. If that's not being possessive over someone, I dunno what you mean by it."

"Uhh." Tom makes a strange, strangled noise in the back of his throat as he rubs his eyes with one hand. Then he moves his arm so his elbow is supported by the chair and his forehead by his hand. Leaning away from you.

"I feel like I overstepped a bit that night," he speaks a bit more fluently now. "I was a total creep at the club. I practically forced you to make out in that maintenance closet. I begged you for sex, y/n—"

"Okay, you insisted a little, but I don't see how that's a problem when I didn't—"

"Really? You don't think me dragging you all the way home and fucking you like that was too much?" Tom scoffs. "Well, guess what? It was. And I felt like an asshole afterwards. So, yeah, I, uh, I owed you that apology."

You're quiet for a bit, watching him as he avoids your gaze and studies whatever he's trying to see past the railing around the balcony.

"I suppose we have different perspectives of what happened, but if it helps," you say quietly, resting your hand on his fingers drumming on his leg. His foot is back to tapping on the floor for whatever nervous reasons he has right now. And this time your gesture doesn't seem strong enough to stop it.

Still you add, "I accept your apology. And if you're willing to move on and keep doing what we do, I'm in. But if you want to stop, I respect that too."

"I don't wanna stop—"

You smile a little, thumb pressing under his chin. Tom's face is still all crumpled and serious.

"I like—" Tom takes a deep breath while you hold yours— "what we do too much. So if you want to move on, we can move on."

"I want to move on."

Tom smiles, nuzzles his cheek into your palm, eyes closed. You reel him in into a kiss.

"I'm sorry," he says before your lips touch. The air coming out of his nose is hot. His eyes open and they're sort of watery, but they focus on yours and his pupils expand.

"It's okay," you peck his lips, "you don't have to apologize to me." You linger for a couple of seconds into the next kiss. "Not for fucking me so good, at least."

Tom smiles and kisses you for real, grabbing your shoulders and keeping you in place.

"I mean," you pull back and exhale, "that second orgasm. Wow. Completely unexpected."

"It was, wasn't it?" Tom wants another kiss, but you speak before he can.

"You're so —uh!— in bed," you whisper. "Maybe possessive—"

"And a creep—"

"But so, so good."

∗

Now that conversations have been had and Tom isn't awkward with you anymore, it's easy to fall into a routine. Work every morning, home by noon, afternoons dedicated to your channel, and doing fuck knows what after dinner. The whole flat gains a new aroma of life being enjoyed all over again.

And every three nights, like clockwork, Tom lures you into bed and crawls over you with a hard cock between his legs. Who are you to say life isn't good after a bit of a misunderstanding?

It's perfect. You have a job, a hobby, friends, and sex as a bonus. It would be madness to complain about it.

A week later, on Thursday, you're serving a chilled blue smoothie to a customer when a cheery group comes through the door.

"Hey," David says next to you, clinking the register closed and giving you an elbow bump. You look at him, but he makes you look at the door instead with a head gesture, saying, "Our VIP regulars are back."

It's Tom. He's leading the Harries and Sam into the pub, glancing over his shoulder to throw some sort of peeved limerick that the boys dismiss with nearly guffaws.

"Hey!" you greet them and slide closer to them, still behind the counter. "This is getting weird, y'know? Thrice in the same week?"

"Hi." Tom sends you a tight-lipped smile. "We would like to have breakfast please."

"Absolutely. Do you need help picking a table, sir?"

Behind him, Harrison rolls his eyes as he follows the twins.

"That's alright, just wanted to say hello."

"Well, hello," you say half sultrily, half jokingly.

"Hi!" Tom opens a full-blown grin now.

"I'm understanding it was a good round?" you suggest. They were all getting ready for the customary Thursday morning trip to the golf course when you left for work.

"Oh, not at all," Tom says, his laugh getting caught in his throat the way it would do if he was struggling to let it out. "But that's exactly why I'm here."

"What, you want a big, deluxe breakfast to forget about your lousy game?"

"Breakfast, yes, but perhaps also a wee kiss." He supports his forearm on the counter, not formally leaning towards you, but suggesting it.

"That's a cheeky proposal when I'm behind the counter, sir," you remind him.

"Then I guess I'll be waiting right there for that kiss on a platter, miss," he says, pointing at the table where his twin brothers are sitting down. Harrison is walking towards the restrooms, head turned to the side as though he's checking something out at the end of the room or trying to sneak a peek at what's going on between you and one of his best friends.

You laugh at Tom's strangely chirpy words. "I'll be right with you, boys."

Before Harrison reaches his destination, you move on swift feet to catch up to him and pull on the edge of his short sleeve just as he's about to step past the restrooms' door.

"Hey, have you been dragging Tom here or something?"

"No," Harrison chuckles, then widens his eyes at you. "He, uh, yeah, he asked us to come."

"Odd." You frown. "I thought he hated this place."

For a second, you want to check out the table the three brothers are occupying, but something tells you that you'll have an awkward stand-off with Tom if you do, so you roll your shoulders back and forward and stay turned to Harrison.

"I suppose you may have to get used to seeing him around here from now on," he says, stepping to the side.

The door leading into the restrooms opens ajar, but you speak up before he pushes it any further. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, don't worry. It's just a gut feeling," Harrison shrugs. "Do you mind?"

"Sure."

With a shake of your head, you let him to his business and return behind the counter to finish what you were doing prior to them bursting into the pub. Waiting for Harrison to come back to the table before you grab your orders pad to check out what they'll be having today.

You figure that what Harrison said might be related to Tom not doing well on the golf course. It looks like the twins are teasing him at the table, and you catch ear of some taunting innuendos when you approach them with their food later on, but you don't have confirmation until you get home and notice that Tom and Harrison aren't exactly on speaking terms.

They're sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Harrison apparently on a phone call and Tom with his bare feet propped on the coffee table and his laptop open on his thighs. After you freshen up and waltz back into the living room in a homely outfit, Tom still looks horribly disgruntled, fingers clacking on the keyboard way too loud. Harrison wraps up his call while smiling at Tom's exasperation beside him.

Trying to ease the mood seems to be the best solution here —even though you believe they're only fooling around and not actually angry at each other— so you nudge Tom's feet out of the way and sit on the small table in the middle of the room, facing them both.

"Boys, can we please talk about this?"

"No." Tom practically grunts his response. "We can't because I'm not talking to him."

"And why not?"

"Why do you think?" Harrison chides.

"Hmm." You pretend to think about it, but it is pretty obvious. It seems like whatever happened today at the course was worse than any other day. You put your palms together and stretch two index fingers, pointing them at Tom—

"You lost—"

Then at Harrison.

"To him?"

"Massively, I must say," Harrison says, nodding condescendingly.

"I'd take that affirmation with a 'green' of salt if I were you," Tom scoffs.

"Well, clearly you didn't, I mean look at you all happy," you try to ease the mood, but the deadly look Tom throws at you is a clear sign that your joke doesn't fall in his good graces.

"The points don't lie, and that's that."

Tom glances at Harrison through the corner of his eye, then turns back to you. "The points can be miscounted or forged."

"Forged? Really?"

It's so hard not to laugh at them because this is the most ridiculous thing you've ever witnessed. Although not uncommon between Tom and anyone that beats him at any of his favorite sports.

"Yes—"

"You've been trying to convince yourself and everyone else that you did well today, but it's useless, mate," Harrison teases him some more, turning to you next. "He scored the highest today, which means he lost, then he tried to redeem himself by challenging the twins and I for some stupid thumb wars thing. Which he lost, too." Looking back at Tom, he adds, "You lost. To all of us. Now get over it already."

"Golf and thumb wars, Tom?"

"You wanna go next?" he defies you, banging the laptop lid closed.

"All right," you say with a chuckle, slapping your hands lightly on your thighs before you get up from where you're sitting on the table. "I can tell when I'm not wanted. I'll be, uh. Yeah."

"I want a rematch," you hear Tom say as you move towards the kitchen.

You look at them over your shoulder, seeing Tom adjust his position so he's facing Harrison with his hand outstretched, and add, "Please don't kill each other in my living room, okay?"

"I got this," Tom claims. There's no audible reaction from Harrison.

Imagining Tom's concentrated look as he gets his rematch, and hoping his honor and ego get restored, you can't help but giggle to yourself at the different interjections that cross the air. There isn't a single quiet day in this house with those two. With you either, let's be honest, but that's far from the point.

It goes silent for a little while, and your ears perk up in case you're missing something, but it doesn't take long before Tom's voice yells your name.

"Coming!"

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight you find in the living room. The two of them are still engaged by the hands, though they're no longer battling for a win. You understand what's happening the second you step closer to the couch and Harrison asks, "Does this look like winning to you?"

And yep, Tom has his thumb pinned under Harrison's which means he loses.

"Sorry, Tom," you say. He only huffs in response. "How about a best of five?"

"Fuck off, I'm done with you two." Tom bolts off the couch.

"Or you could try toe wars. You'd definitely win that," you suggest as a joke. Harrison practically doubles over from cackling.

Tom stops on his way out of the room and squints at you. "Are you making fun of my big toe?"

"Of course not!" you exclaim as dramatically as you can. "I'm implying it's such a powerful toe, you'd win at toe wars. Not sure how you found that offensive, really."

"You should try that some day, bro," Harrison says, eyes gazing at Tom over the back of the couch. "Maybe not tonight, though. Wouldn't want you to do a whole trifecta of losing, now would we?"

"A trifecta of losing..." you echo him. "Doesn't sound too bad if you ask me." The expression has sort of a nice ring to it despite its meaning. Tom doesn't think it's that funny, however.

The teasing doesn't really stop until way after dinner. It's ridiculously amusing to watch Tom get all red and bothered over Harrison's remarks while he keeps trying and trying to come out on top somehow.

Towards the end of the night, you and Tom are hanging out in the balcony with laughter and a few beers for company, lounging in the chairs that stay out there throughout most of the summer. Harrison went out for the night with no explanation as to his plans, leaving you by yourselves in the flat. It's been incredibly fun, the same way it always is, just chatting and drinking and trying not to burst into laughter too loud as to not bother any of the nearby neighbors.

"Could you stop with the foot thing?" you ask him referring to how he keeps bumping your toes together every once in a while. You're both barefoot, now sharing the same chair since the last of the beers ran out a few minutes ago. Tom does it again, wiggling his toes a little harder this time, trapping one of yours beneath his.

"Don't make me call a round of toe wars out here," you warn him.

"Or what?" He laughs, kissing the corner of your mouth. "You'd let me win, right?"

"Hmm... maybe."

He pulls back to look at you, and it's so difficult to keep a straight face at the sight of his dearest confused puppy look. "That's not very comforting."

"Too bad." You click your tongue against your teeth, making Tom shake his head at you and kiss you full on the mouth this time.

"Y'know," he says, sliding a hand across one of your thighs. Your sides are pressed very close given the chair that wasn't really made for two people. "I'd let you win if I had to. But I'd rather we play something else."

"Hm?"

"We could do leg wars—" he suggests, curling one of his over yours.

"You might win that one out of merit, Mr. Gym Man..."

"—Or tummy wars." As he says this, Tom twists on the chair so he's hovering over you, using his arms as support with both hands on either side of your torso.

"That doesn't really make sense, but I guess you won, champ," you tell him, grabbing the sides of his white t-shirt just in case he ends up rolling off of you from his natural clumsiness.

"Guess I did, huh?" He throws you a sultry smile, kissing your mouth next. "You wanna 'wrestle' out here?"

You blink twice at him, trying to grasp the meaning behind what he's clearly trying to say. "Really, Tom?"

"What?" He giggles. The next kiss falls on the corner of your mouth, followed by a quick second one on your cheek.

"Every time you mention it becomes creepier and creepier..."

He laughs a little, chest trembling with it where it's touching yours, but then he says, "Y'know, the other day you said me being a creep was fine as long as I kept fucking you so good."

"That's not—" you start, but he cuts you off with a smack on the lips— "exactly—" a lick of his tongue— "what I said."

"It's close enough." He smirks.

He kisses you next, and you let him do it for a little while because he tastes and smells like pure him, all natural Tom and sweet, fruity hair conditioner.

"Besides, I had a pretty lousy day, as you know. And you're like my happiness miracle pill."

"I'm feeling more like a consolation prize to be honest," you point out.

Tom nips on his bottom lip for a second and says, "Of a sort." After a small giggle, he adds, "But don't take it personally."

"You creep."

When he grins and bends his arms to lower himself onto you, you turn your head to the side so he'll meet your cheek instead. Yet before the kiss that you predicted would happen lands on your skin, Tom hovers over you. You face him again.

"All right, I'll stop," he smiles and starts to move away, legs outstretched around the outer side of yours.

"Wait," you ask, fisting both hands around his t-shirt. "How about a compromise?"

"Fucking love compromises." Tom grins.

"Topless—"

His response is immediate. He moves so fast that it makes you laugh, barely able to study his shadow and his movements as he sits on your thighs and removes his t-shirt right away.

After he settles again, watching you, you stroke the slopes of his chest with two fingers and add, "Topless is fine. But that's it."

"I'll take it," he whispers, crawling over you once more to peck your chin, "but you're in debt at the moment."

"Fuck, after seeing this?" you chirp, hands caressing the skin between his two pectoral muscles. With a lick across his collarbone and a thumb grazing his nipple, you say, "Mine will be fucking embarrassing."

"Mhmm, nice try."

The fact that Tom is a tease is nothing new, but still you let him kiss you and poke at your sides. Five fingers dribble over your belly until they find and pinch your nipples, all with his hand sneaking under the flimsy shirt you've been wearing all night. He doesn't ask to take it off yet, which is surprising. Instead he moves downwards and cups between your legs, sparkling eyes very much focused on yours. A single fingertip dares to slip past the edge of your shorts and undies.

"Tom," you warn him.

"Just checking how much more teasing you need."

Typical. You let him do whatever he wants in the end. It's not like he's ever left you unsatisfied or like he's ever overstepped many boundaries without question. But when he tries to feel you up through the leg of your shorts, you have to stop him. It's a little uncomfortable given the position, so you tug on his wrist and place his hand on the strings of the waistband, allowing him to pull on them and slip inside more freely.

You honestly didn't think he was a creep last Saturday, and you don't think he's being one tonight either, so you let things happen. You'll know when to draw the line if he attempts to cross it, although you have a hunch that he won't even try.

And you're right. He feels how wet you are, toys with your slit a little, but retreats his hand after a couple of minutes. Sucking the taste off his fingers next. Making a huge deal out of it and you're about twice as wet just from watching him.

"That got you a lot closer to dripping, champ," you tell him, watching with pleasure as his grin widens.

"Can I check?"

"Hmmm," you muse within a kiss. You pull back from pecking his lips and say, "No. That's not part of our agreement."

"S'pose you're right," he concurs, grabbing the hem of your shirt. "Topless only, it is. Can we make out after this comes off?"

"Mhmm." You nod.

"For how long?"

"How long can you keep going without drawing back for air?"

Tom widens his eyes mischievously at your dare. "Let's find out, shall we?"

You wheeze out a smile and stay very still, watching the smooth curves of his face approaching yours. He's got his irresistible smile on, but it drops when his eyelids flutter right before his lips clash against yours.

∗

The next morning, you wake up with a familiar tingling in your stomach. On the inside, there's the usual buzz that starts after a sexy night in with your roommate, while on the outside, Tom's hand resting on your belly waters the serenity growing steady in your core.

He's lying behind you, breath hot under your ear, impossibly close. Welded to you head to hip, one leg in between yours.

No matter how little you want to disturb his sleeping beauty, you do need to get ready for work, so you battle your way out of the sheets as well as Tom's tangled legs, and sit up on the edge of the mattress.

"Where you going?" a sleepy voice behind you croaks.

"Where do you think," you say in the best of your worst morning mood, "I have a hot work date with David."

He sighs.

"You said something?" you ask, unsure if you heard him say anything or if you've imagined it since the little voice was buried into a pillow.

"Have a great day," Tom says after clearing his voice. He then turns to the other side, facing away from you.

That's... odd to say the least.

"All right, I'm gonna get ready, be right back."

Heartbeat sprinting inside, you get out of the room with it clogging your throat. You thought you were making good progress the last few days, especially after last night. Things had been soft and close between the two of you. Hours spent together, a full house to yourselves, Tom was tender and sweet and of course a proper tease as per usual. It was even the closest you had even been to say yes to his idiotic idea of sex on the balcony. That is how crazy you were for him.

Yet here he was acting strange again. You roam through your head while getting ready, trying to remember if you'd said something that might have upset him, but nothing comes to mind. It was a great night to wrap up a good week.

Honestly you thought his issues with you had been over already, whatever has been going on in that head of his that he might be hiding to himself. Well, that he's clearly hiding from you. The only pattern you've noticed is that he turns colder whenever the topic of your work comes up. It's hard to think that he doesn't want you to have a job, however. That would be ridiculous. It has to be something else. It wouldn't make sense otherwise.

It could be that he's jealous of how little time you've been spending together. Between the pub, your channel, and any time you spend enjoying the company of friends you don't have in common with him, it would be incredibly petty of Tom to not want you to live through those moments without him. You don't think Tom could be that guy, and you refuse to think so.

Whether that's it or something else entirely, you can only hope it won't create another dead zone between the two of you. The idea of falling apart for any reason other than a mutual agreement rips a fissure deep in you. You're simply not going to let it happen until he gives you a clear sign of wanting it to happen.

And the way to be close to him while at work is through text messages. And what better way to get to his heart other than his very favorite meta-fores? To be fair, he doesn't really like them, but you're certain they make him smile a little bit. And besides you can't think of a better idea on such short notice. So that's the first thing you do as soon as you step foot outside the building.

You: Hey

Tom: ?

Tom: You just left

You: I have a question

You: Zero guts to ask it to your face

For the few moments you spend looking at your phone, Tom is always typing. It doesn't make sense. What could he possibly be writing in response that takes him so many characters? You panic a little, you can't help yourself, but then it's surprise that fills you when you read his ridiculously short reply.

Tom: Ok shoot

Waiting a few seconds in case he sends another one. When nothing else comes, you paste the stupid question you got from your ever shorter collection of golf puns to send to him.

You: So do you golf to get your mind off work or do you work to get your mind off golf?

Tom: Really.

You: ⛳!

You: Last night I realized you have sex to get your mind off golf tho

Tom: Thats so wrong

You: At least it was more than 30 sec

Tom: I'm going back to sleep

On your first break at work, you check your phone really quick and a text from Tom is waiting for you.

Tom: Weakest metaphor you've ever told btw

You: It's f-o-r-e mate

Tom: f u c k u

And every time you close the register after that, it is so damn hard to fight the urge to run to your phone and check if he's sent anything else. Exchanging texts and memes when he's peeved at you is always a good exercise for your laughter.

It only continues to get better within the next few days. You spend the whole weekend away from town visiting friends and family, and at least the back and forth banter never stops. The smile on your face during the trip back home is unmatched.

The most impressive part is that Tom stays true to his word. He does become possessive over you, spending every free minute you have in your company, virtual or physical. Not that you're complaining. You love the attention. Just the two of you, or with the rest of the usual gang, fun is guaranteed.

From lame dine-and-movie nights to full afternoons in the rare London sun, the week flies by against your will. Hours lost at the arcade, as per Tom's request so he can get his vengeance at winning at least something against the other boys. He even suggests this lounge a few miles outside of town that has life sized board games where you all play as the game pieces, despite the numerous height jokes everyone keeps throwing at him.

Some moments are more memorable than others. Like the early evening game of mini golf Tom invites you to. Just you and him.

Tom: You and me tomorrow mini golf

Tom: ⛳?

You: Sounds fun

Tom: Perhaps a mini fuck as well :D!

You: Maybe not

You: Not enough space at the course for your ego

Tom: You spelled it wrong 🍆

Tom: 😏😏😏

You: See what I mean 😶

His new favorite pastime, he calls it when he asks you about it again at the course. He has that smug smile on his face as ridiculous as the smirking emoji he insists is cool enough to use in his texts. You don't even bother to reply yes or no, you merely pluck the scorecards from his hands in absolute silence. It's not like you could try anything risky in such a confined space anyway.

Apparently, by not being able to achieve so, Tom seems to take it out on you. His game is extremely on point today. By hole eight, Tom has a big advantage over you as it is.

"Why don't I ever play this well when those wankers are around?!" he complains at some point, hitting with his club on the fake grass like a child.

"You know that's your mates you're talking about," you chastise him.

"Eh, mates, enemies. It's a fine line."

Then a few holes later, you're about to score a hole-in-one after a very lucky shot, elbows angled expectantly and so ready to celebrate, but Tom hits the ball with his own club and it dodges a few inches to the side.

"Hey! What the fuck."

"Sorry," he shrugs. "I think that counts as another strike."

"You touched my ball! That's gotta be a fault," you make sure to complain.

"What? You're nuts."

"Guess who won't be touching your nuts tonight, champ." You click your tongue.

"Why do you make everything about sex?"

"Oh I make everything about sex?!" you spit through your teeth. "You're the one with the golf course recurring fantasy."

"Ah, whatever, just play, y/n," Tom says with an eye-roll. "We shouldn't be wasting our precious game time with chitchat, c'mon."

Enough said you're never letting him forget how much of a cheater he's revealing to be.

That, and how much of a loser he is in actuality. An expensive one, but still one. Because days later, what could very well be a simple flat party among friends and drinks and jokes turns into a well-organized soirée at a rented penthouse in town.

"Can't decide between wine tasting or like, tea tasting party but it's teas with a twist," he says at some point in the afternoon. You're sitting with the laptop in the armchair by the window, working on a few things for your channel, and Tom and Harrison are on the couch discussing tonight's plans.

"I could just bring them from work if you want," you suggest.

"Wine tasting it is," Tom says in a low voice a few seconds later.

"Can we invite outsiders?" you propose, thinking of a way to tease Tom and avoid his moody mode to engage at the mention of the Den. "I could bring Beth..."

"Uhhh why?"

"I was just gonna say it'd depend who you're thinking about," Harrison giggles. Tom nearly headbutts him for a reason you cannot grasp. It could be because Tom would like Beth to come.

"Wait. Do you want me to invite Beth? 'Cause I could."

"Uh, no," Tom says slowly, arm splayed over the back of the couch. "Just you is fine."

"What does that mean?" you ask.

Tom blinks between you and Harrison. "I mean it's, uh, let's keep it a small party, just us, 'kay?"

"Sure, a small party at a swanky penthouse," you tease him about his choice of location for the evening. It was an idea that came out of nowhere for no proper reason, at least that you could care to imagine.

"That's right." Tom clears his throat. "So I'm thinking, wine tasting soirée hosted by yours truly. Are you still up for that trivia special T suggested, y/n?"

"A custom wine-themed quiz will be ready, sir."

"Perfect. Just perfect."

"A party with a fancy name, fancy wine, swanky penthouse," you hear Harrison say. "Dinner delivered and served by a high-end bistro. Are you sure you want us there, mate? Because we could, y'know, make it a no-show..."

"Whaaat? Why would you do that?" you spit out, banging your laptop closed by accident when you put it down for a quick bathroom break.

"Yeah why would we do that, hmmm..." he adds, mystery in his tone.

"Shut up, Harrison," Tom puts in, and if they say anything else, it's lost in the distance as you go further down the hallway.

The party —"it's soirée, loser, use the proper term," as per Tom's insistence— doesn't go half bad. Harrison, the twins, and Tuwaine do show up, a night of friends, wine glasses and chatter. Trivia, too. The quiz you put together in a rush isn't a major success, but it is enough to make everyone have a good time for a few hours.

Namely you. Tom doesn't leave your side the whole time. Sometimes if he's chatting with one of the boys, you steal a glance at him only to look away before it gets too obvious. Wine aplenty in your system, you often find yourself studying the curve of his shoulders, more and more defined from his many hours at the gym lately. The same curve you examine by hand before the end of the night as you both fall asleep on a set of sheets that smell like white roses in the master suite of the penthouse.

And then you wake up and the Grand Day has arrived. Saturday, your day off. And also the day of the breakfast cook-off. According to Harrison, Sam has agreed to select a single dish for you and Tom to cook and to judge the final result as impartially as he can.

The logistics are quite simple. The twins made pretty much all of the decisions. The cook-off would happen at their parents' place since it's more spacious than the flat. Initially you thought it would be unfair, the location being Tom's childhood house, but soon you learn that Sam limited the area of action to a counter and a washing basin each.

"This is all you'll need," Sam explains along with the rest of the rules. Harry is to the side recording everything with a small camera. Tuwaine and Harrison are also around, struggling not to take sides apparently.

The recipe is easy enough. A simple scramble with a few ingredients that require washing and chopping, a bit of mixing, a touch of spice, and a quick whip of the wrist on the stove. Which proves to be the toughest battle this morning.

There's only one stove, and you and Tom keep bumping hips when you both try to use it. Though you do have to dodge a few cabinet doors in the process when Tom starts improvising.

"Isn't that against the rules?" you enquire, oven-gloved hand pointed at Tom.

Sam only shrugs. "Insignificantly so," he says. "I'm having too much fun listening to your banter to care."

"The word banter is way too platonic for what's happening here," Harry jokes, but the true meaning of his words goes over your head. Your scramble is practically ready anyway, so you focus on it.

It's barely a few minutes later when their mum returns from her errands and finds an overpopulated room, closer to a battlefield than the kitchen she'd left all tidied earlier.

"I wasn't aware of this invasion, you fiends," she says amusingly. "Hey, y/n, happy to see you around. You look good, hunny."

"As do you. Good morning," you reply politely, setting your fully presented plate on the table. Tom is still adding whatever improv he decided to go with to his.

"Oh, this looks lovely," his mum says, grabbing the fork and taking a small bite. "Delicious, too."

"Why, thank you." You're perfectly aware of the conceit showing on your face when you turn to Tom and click your tongue.

"Mum!"

His mum goes around the table to drop the fork in the sink and turns back to you with a clean one, handing it to you. "Relax, it's just food."

Tom's mouth agape is more scandalous than anything else going on in this kitchen. He squints at her and snaps his jaw when his mum starts to move. "Someone tell her, please."

Sam jumps to the task right away. "It's a breakfast cook-off, mum. I'm judging. Best dish wins... well, nothing but bragging rights, I suppose."

"Oh I see, mhmm," she mutters on her way out of the kitchen. "My bad. Your food's great, Tom."

"You haven't even tasted it!"

"I have faith in you, progeny."

"Yeah, thanks for nothing, progenitor!"

But for what it's worth, after tasting what the both of you have done, you do agree with Sam when he says Tom should win. He may have gone astray from the recipe, but whatever improv he did worked really well. The texture of his scrambled ingredients is much more delicate than yours. After all, Tom really does love his breakfast food.

"All right, I'll give you this win," you say without prejudice. "Despite that, um, totally cocky swerve away from the recipe we were both supposed to follow. As the rules dictated."

"The idea was to use the tools at our disposal, and that's exactly what I did," Tom excuses himself.

"And of course, cheating is one of yours."

"Not cheating. Improvising."

"Potato, tomato..." You shrug, proceeding to eat more of his dish. Between two mouthfuls, you add, "It is good, though, dammit."

"Thank you." He tilts his head in reverence, too.

"You're welcome. Now do five more portions, these punks are starving."

"Oh, so this was all a ruse, eh?"

"Call it whatever you want, mate," you say, squealing a bit when he wraps an arm around your head and pulls you into him to mess up your hair.

"Chop chop, get to working, lovebirds," Harry says, earning himself a punch to the shoulder from Tom.

"Yes," you say, dragging the word on your tongue as you sit down at the table. "Cook something nice for us, will you, pretty thing?"

The outraged glance Tom sends you next is enough to send the whole room into laughs.

The mood continues to be up and high for the remainder of the day. At least, until you remind your roommates that there's this event you would like them to accompany you to. Both Tom and Harrison had agreed to come before, but back then you had purposely hid valuable information about what exactly you were inviting them to.

In particular that this event is taking place at the Toasty Den.

"You don't need me there, do you?" Tom claims, making you roll your eyes. In fact, you don't, but it was only fair to invite your friends to the event. It is so out of character for him, though sort of in character at the same time considering his latest moody behavior.

"C'mon, man, everyone is coming. Harrison, Big T, your brothers, even your friend Alex said he'd stop by if he could. I'm not counting on him, but it's not like you're gonna be doing anything better—"

"Anything would be better," he grumbles, plopping down on the couch.

You huff at him. "It's a charity pub quiz, you love those," you say eventually. "Wouldn't you rather be a grump that helps a charity than a chirpy person who doesn't?"

Tom looks down at his hands, flipping the phone on his palm. "Fine," he says, "that's a weird way to put things, but sure. I suppose you're right. I'll go, but no—"

"No celebrity status. We already agreed on that. Just another lazily-dressed London bloke at a pub, I promise."

"Cool." Tom sighs and gets up, stepping towards the bedrooms to get ready.

You sit down next to Harrison, who's been sitting there watching the whole scene unfold. He even stopped typing on his phone in the middle of your conversation with Tom.

"Fuck me if I understand why he gets like this every time I mention work or even just the Den, he's so—" you pause, holding your head with both hands. "Uh. So dense."

"I'm sure he has a solid reason," Harrison says, focusing back on his phone.

"And I would love to know it."

"Y/n, c'mon," he starts, catching you off guard with his blasé tone. "That place steals your attention from him, that's what it is."

"What? Please, he is not that petty."

Harrison chuckles. "Sure."

"I mean you steal my attention sometimes," you reason with him. This whole conversation leaves a spiked taste of confusion on your tongue as you try to solve the riddle behind the meaning of Harrison's words. "And my channel. He's even trying to— no, wait." You lean against the back of the couch and cross your legs down at the ankles, pondering the thought that just rushed through your head.

"That would explain why he keeps insisting he wants to be in one of my videos," you think out loud, watching Harrison's eyes but not finding any flicker of change in them. "But anyway, like, any time I go out with other friends, he's cool with it, y'know? And this— I mean, it's just the Den. I work there. That's all. But, uh, I mean, there has to be something about it..."

"Mhmm, wonder what that is..." he trails off, eyes on the phone now. Typing away with ease.

"You, uh, you don't know what it is, do you?"

"Hm?" Harrison peers over his glasses. You study his gaze, though it looks void of meaning or second thoughts to you. Except it reminds you of something he's told you a while back.

"Well of course you know," you point out, leaning your elbows on your knees. It's one way to try to get him to look at you some more, but Harrison seems smarter than that. He keeps looking at his phone instead.

"You did say you know a lot of things I don't know," you add in the hope that any sort of hint from him will help you figure it out. You try squinting at him, poking the toe of his shoe with yours, but nothing works. He doesn't budge a single inch. And you stay with no clue what to think about the whole thing.

"Alright, I give up."

The subject drops as soon as Tom waltzes back into the room. And it doesn't come back up the rest of the night.

At the Toasty Den, the event goes as smoothly as expected. There's a big turnout for the quiz, eleven teams of up to six members all over the room. You and the boys do fairly well despite several of them arguing over the correct answer. Most of those times you end up pressing a button on instinct, and in the end it isn't totally embarrassing.

"Seventh place is not that bad, boys," you remind them, but pretty much all of them stare at you like you just said the sky is green or something. "Fine, stay mad about it. I'm going to the restroom. Someone order us another round so you all can drown your sorrows in beer, yeah?"

And off you go to the bathroom. There's a bit of a queue at the door, so you make a quick detour to talk with David and Beth. They're both working tonight, alongside Sarrah, another 'Den-mate' you don't know really well. It's only a quick chat since they're quite busy.

"Gotta go," David says at some point. "Table mullie is demanding my attention."

"Table what?" You don't understand the reference. Sometimes you'd use fun, harmless nicknames to refer to a table of regular customers, but this one is completely new to you. Yet when you look in the direction where David is moving, you get that he's talking about your mates.

"Mullie, as in mulligan? It's a golf thing," David clarifies. "Heard them talking about it the other day. Thought it was a fun nickname, y'know, the way we always— y'know."

"Yeah, I know," you laugh at him. "Didn't make the connection to golf, but I got it now."

As far as you know, a mulligan shot in golf is a sort of do-over when a shot goes wrong. It's not really in the rule book, you think, it might even not be legal in professional rounds, but you understand why it's acceptable in games among friends. You've had to do some before whenever the ball did not go where you wanted it to go, as well as any time where retrieving it would take more time than just re-doing the whole shot. Used in a context like the pub, it could be a sure way to tease someone about their poor golf skills. And it makes sense to use such a term on Tom and the rest of the boys given that they've come to the pub often after a round of golf. But yeah, you're probably going to save this information to yourself.

"Not sure they'll be pleased about it," you add.

"Then make sure they don't find out."

"Fair." You grin.

"You golf? That's news to me." Beth asks David, but she's already on the way to the back of the pub and doesn't hear his answer.

"Used to," he tells only you now. "With my dad. It was our bonding thing before he bailed on us."

"I see why you grew out of it, then."

"So damn fast, you have no idea," he laughs on his way to the table. And you just head to the restroom at last.

On your way back a few minutes later, you notice David standing by your table, dropping a new round of drinks. Things seem to be quiet over there, at least until Tom raises his eyes from his focus on the table and starts talking to David.

Strange You don't remember ever seeing them chatting casually aside from drink or food orders. But it's when you approach the table that things get even stranger.

"So, David, do you like girls?"

What an odd question to ask anyone, especially someone who isn't even your friend.

Still David surprises you even more by replying, "I do, yeah, how about you?"

"I do too," Tom says, grabbing his glass next and taking a sip. His eyes lost somewhere between either his brothers or Harrison. They're all eerily quiet, it seems, and you can read the tension on their shoulders even from a few steps away.

"Yeah?" David clears his throat. "Plural? Or just the one?"

You see David tilting his head in your direction, but you're sure he hasn't seen you coming closer just yet. So his gesture could very well be towards anyone else who's sitting or standing behind you. You take a quick look over your shoulder and don't see anyone that would make sense.

Nevertheless, that is still a puzzling quip to process.

You're about to ask them what's going on when David turns to leave and finally sees you. "Hey, welcome back."

Then he officially leaves, all the way towards the counter where Beth is also joining him.

"What the hell was that?" you ask the boys, sitting down at last. Sam has to scoot further into the seat so you'll sit in front of Tom now, but there are no complaints from him. "Why the fuck were you asking him about girls?"

Tom's face is hard to read. Wide eyes blinking fast, tongue wiping his lips as whatever thought goes through his mind.

It's Sam on your left who says, "Don't worry about it, Tom has apparently lost all of his conversation skills."

You turn to him in time to hear Harrison say to Harry, "You know what though? I like David."

Harry simply transforms into cackles.

The expression on Tom's face goes completely livid. Eyes locked on his friend, loaded with incredulity and a pile of emotion you don't dare to decode.

"So how's that green cocktail, Big T? You've turned to the dark side yet?" Sam interrupts.

There's no way he isn't asking a totally different question to divert your attention from what you just witnessed.

Tom's eyes turn to you now, and you take some time to analyze them, but they don't tell you much as of now. Namely because he gazes away towards his drink and his hands and the rest of the group sitting at the table. Never again to you. Avoiding you, that much is for sure, but there's only so long he can avoid you for.

∗

"So."

"Motherfuck—"

Tom jumps two feet in the air when you speak as soon as he steps foot into the bedroom. You got out of bed first because you needed a rush trip to the toilet and when you returned, he wasn't here anymore. Then you waited for him to return because there's something that has been swirling around in your mind for a while now.

"Don't do that, what the fuck."

"I'm sorry," you say honestly, but don't let the conversation dwell any longer. "So are you gonna tell me what the fuck was that last night?"

Last night.

After that strange moment you witnessed between David and Tom, you had every intention to confront him about it. However, when you got home, you were a little drunk and Tom was a little handsy, so you didn't even hesitate when he pulled you into his room with his hands on your waist. Every question you had to ask him got buried under a layer of kisses, a quickie, and eventually sleep, but this morning your mind was clear again.

"What do you mean?" he asks, blinking both eyes at you.

"That thing with David. What else?"

You can tell he's in some kind of a rush, grabbing the first pieces of clothing off his dresser and putting them on with swift arches of his arms. His rush doesn't make sense since it's Sunday and as far as you know, there are no big plans for the day, but you don't question that. There are more important things you'd like to ask him about.

"It was nothing, don't worry about it," he rushes to say, words coming out as near whispers as he fumbles across the room.

"Don't worry about it," you parrot after him with a scoff.

"Yeah. It was just... trying to make casual conversation."

"That was casual?"

"Of course it was," he exclaims, turning to you at last. He's fully dressed by now, running a hand over his head as though he forgot he has no hair to coif. "Look, I'd love to stay here and tell you everything, but I've to go. Mum asked me to drive her to—"

"Why do you always do this?"

Tom blinks and finally stops to look at you. "Do what?"

You chuckle to disguise an angered scoff. "Leave when I'm trying to have a conversation with you?"

"I don't—" Tom starts, wiping an eye with one finger. "I don't always do that, y/n, what the fuck."

"Lately, you do, yeah."

Tom steps closer and stands there with his eyes on you, sighing before he says, "Look, it slipped, okay? It's not a big deal. We were there, words came out of my mouth, it was awkward. It happens. More often than I'd like to admit, mind you."

With a deep breath, you watch as he gathers whatever he needs to whatever he'll be doing today. You spot his phone in his hand, keys being thrown into a pocket, wallet in the other, a ragged on the edges cap going over his head. You're waiting to see if he'll be less busy so he can properly face you while you say what you want to say. Perhaps he'll listen, perhaps he'll even open up to you at last.

"Why are you even asking me this?" he says, still in a sprinting tone. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Not much," you reply honestly. You did ask David if something had happened last night at the table, but he assured you that it wasn't important. Yet there was something about that moment you witnessed, that particular conversation, that doesn't sit right with you. "He did say it was weird— and I agree, I mean, you've barely ever even talked to him."

Tom sighs again and stops again. Eyes on you while you stand there behind his armchair, keeping yourself at bay so he won't feel any more threatened by your words. You're sincerely only trying to understand what's been going on with him, but he isn't making it any easier on you.

"Sure, maybe that's true," he says eventually, checking the phone he's still holding, "but look, there was no secret evil design to it, okay? I swear."

It doesn't really convince you, but you have no time to react. Tom adds, "I really have to go now. Sorry."

"Fine. See you later." You huff and step towards the door, looking forward to his customary goodbye kiss as every morning, but he simply leaves without a second glance over his shoulder.

∗

Everything buzzes awkwardly in you for a while after that, but it helps that you've been having a lot of work for the channel. Keeping busy has always helped forgo any thinking or talking you tell yourself you need to do. And it's even more helpful that Tom has apparently scheduled work commitments out of town, which means you rarely see him. It's easy to pretend everything is alright via text because of course you're not going to have any sort of difficult conversation over the phone.

Sometimes you grab it to send Tom another golf joke and end up staring at the screen a while because it's telling you that Tom is typing something. In the end, most of those times, no message ever comes, no matter how long you wait, so you figure maybe there's some sort of glitch in the app. So you update it, delete and reinstall it, but alas you keep seeing the typing indicator going off in front of your very eyes. Which can only mean one thing.

He really is typing. Yet he never seems to send anything aside from the occasional meme or futile response to whatever text you've sent him first.

You put off that awful itch it creates in your mind, refusing to scratch at it in the hopes it will go away by itself. But of course every night the thought comes flooding into your mind. Once you even spend so long staring at his contact name, pondering whether to call him or not, that you swear he feels some sort of energy wherever he is because he calls you the second you're about to put down your phone.

It's a fun conversation, chatting about everything and nothing, definitely not about whatever you've been perusing in depth in your own head. Several times a flood of word vomit clogs your throat and you're on the verge of mentioning it, thinking that maybe the fact that you're not really face to face would make it easier — even video calls aren't exactly the same, are they? — but then you give in into his nonsense and end up not bringing it up. Again. And again and again.

Things should be this easy all the time between the two of you. You're good friends, and you get along very well judging by the endless texts you exchange and the long calls, however rare they are. It should be comfortable bringing certain issues to the table. Even so, Tom has been so erratic in his reactions to you that you bite your tongue and avoid creating an even bigger problem between the two of you. It's for the best anyway. If you ignore or forget everything bothersome, it can't harm you, can it?

On Thursday, however, Tom surprises you by showing up at the pub during your shift in the morning. He says he's just finished a round of golf — by himself, it seems — and that he came by to see you since he's been gone for a few days. Whatever was bothering him— that is, you assume there was something, but he's either really good at hiding it or maybe there was never really anything. His erratic behavior seems to be gone by now.

He's back to flirting with you behind the counter, and you reply in the same fashion. Never dropping the smirk until you serve him a special set of mini toast your boss has added to the menu recently to drive more interest from the customers. And since you haven't enjoyed your mandatory fifteen minute break this morning, you even accept his invitation to sit with him and enjoy this small meal.

It's safe to say that is the shortest break of your life. Tom seems comfortable with you all over again. Who are you to deny him some normalcy? Despite it all, you missed him. Especially this goofy side that he has, pretending to let you taste a certain toast only to swallow it all in one go himself. Small things like that, and in particular that foot of his that never stops rubbing against your naked ankle, they help you forget that there was ever any worry in your mind about him and you.

"I really, really need to get back to work," you tell him with a giggle, stealing the last piece of toast from the tray.

"Duty calls, huh?" he says, seeming reluctant to let you go.

As much as you would like to stay here and enjoy his company, you absolutely need to get back to work. It's only you and David as it is most mornings, but today the pub is busier than usual and you can spot several orders that still need to be fulfilled on the counter.

Tom gets up to leave as well, which makes sense as there won't be much room to engage in conversation with him and he shouldn't just sit there doing nothing. You notice the hesitancy in his gaze when he glances at David who's standing behind the register, probably trying to come up with a way to avoid any other awkward bouts of conversation, so you decide to help and tackle the bill yourself. Just in case. David doesn't seem to mind.

After, towards the end of your shift, there's a bit of a slow moment again and David asks you to the side. First he asks for help to store away a freshly washed load of glasses from the dishwasher. It's the question he asks next that puzzles you the most, though.

"So I'm guessing he doesn't know, huh?"

You're very confused at his vague choice of words. "What are you talking about?"

"Tom." David's nonchalance throws you completely off guard. "He has no idea that you like him, does he?"

"What?" You gape at him. "David!"

"Sorry! I have eyes, though," he blurts out with a small laugh. It stops and he shakes his head for a couple of seconds. You can tell he's staring at you even though you're focusing on your hands and on a water stain inside a glass that's proving to be very stubborn. It comes off about the same time as David adds, "It's only a question anyway, you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

The thing is, you might not want to, you might not even want to admit it, but you do like him. More than you give yourself credit for. There's no point in perpetuating the denial by now. You have been bewitched with him for a long time. Perhaps since the very beginning. And you're sort of sick of being twisted up inside with a sense of longing, from the void Tom leaves behind whenever he isn't around. So you might as well stomp on all the rationalization and face the truth that David is trying to help you see.

"It's that obvious, huh?" You laugh nervously, putting the glass down on the right shelf. Your hands are shaking too much right now. You wouldn't trust yourself with a plushie, let alone anything of value like your boss's glassware.

"Yep. You can say that. I've seen the way you look at him, the way you talk about him. How is it possible that someone like me, someone who's only been behind the counter at a pub you frequent often, can know more about this than you? Something's not clicking."

"Well, to be fair with you, I, uh—" you start, swallowing the stutter that squeezes in your throat. "I didn't really know myself. Or, like, didn't want myself to know."

"Okay, that's tricky."

"Yeah." You chuckle in almost melancholy, focusing on drying off the glasses as you let your mind and your mouth run free. "I am sick a little of it though. Totally convinced myself that it wasn't worth it. That this friend zone is the most privileged place to be in his life. So, um, yeah. That's it. I'm the roommate, the friend."

"Is that all you are?"

You open your mouth to answer, but close it right away with a frown. It's not very clear what he means by that, so you play it safe by asking, "Is that a trick question, David?"

He only laughs. "No, I swear it isn't. It's just that, y'know, there's something there. More, um... intimacy, if you don't mind me calling it that, but more than with any of your other friends."

"Well, of course," you almost roll your eyes, "I don't really do with every one of my friends what I've been doing with him."

In the next moment of silence, you can tell David is trying to deflect from the point you just made when he asks, "Do you not want him to know?"

"Sometimes," you confess. It's the truth. It's like you said before, Tom's close friend zone is a privilege not granted to many. "Other times I do."

"Then use that," he says with an honest smile. "When you really want to tell him, say something. To him, preferably."

You could have laughed at his quip, but you're not in the mood for that anymore. You know he's right, but there's also that little voice in the far-off corner reminding you of the real reason why you don't want to open up about any of this. Why you'd rather keep it all bottled in just to stay in the safety of Tom's circle of trust.

"The problem is that if I talk about it, it means that this whole thing is real."

"What's the problem with that?"

"The problem is that if I talk about it, it means that this whole thing is real," you repeat automatically, then add with a sigh, "And I don't know if I can handle it being real and disappointing."

"Disappointing?" he asks with an inflection of surprise in his voice, grabbing the last glass from the tray. "Why would it be disappointing?"

"I don't even know. It's just so difficult to process any change in the chemistry you have with someone, no?" You exhale and glance at David. "Do you really think I should tell him?"

"I do," he says with a nod. You study his face carefully and can't find anything wrong with it.

The two of you have become somewhat close from the several hours a day you spend cooked up in this pub, some mornings without a single customer. The friendship started to develop from those dead moments when it was just you and him and the fact that you had to find something to do when any other chore was done for the day. You had already gotten past the most difficult part of gaining each other's trust from all the bar talk you've been trading for a while now, so it was easy to navigate from there.

"If it were me, I'd like to know," he adds, making you gaze back at him from where you'd been fiddling with your hands. "But of course, you know him a lot better than I do. Although I don't see why he would be upset about something like this, y'know?"

You sigh at his words. You do know Tom, but at the same time you're not so sure. You've only ever been his friend and, despite the occasions when you've opened up to each other, relationships isn't something you've properly discussed. After all, as far as you know, neither you nor Tom have been with anyone else since you started sleeping with each other.

"Look," David adds. Something has eased in his pose. His shoulders seem more relaxed now. "Speaking as a completely objective third party observer with absolutely no personal interest in the matter—"

You immediately recognize that quote. It's from a film he suggested you to watch a few weeks back. "Why are you quoting that film to me?"

He laughs again, showing you a grin that proves he knew you would recognize it. "Because I like it, and I know you liked it, and because it fits."

And to be honest with yourself, it does ease the mood of the whole conversation. So much so that you gasp mockingly and ask, "Wait a minute, is that why you always stand as far from me as possible? Because you knew that we—"

The thought, no matter how playful, raises a few questions and makes you feel a little like property, though you can't really imagine David thinking like that. He's always so... respectful.

"No, don't worry, I do that with everyone," he laughs. "Although..." he trails off, head tilted in a funny way. "I have seen videos of his golf swing, y'know. And I wouldn't want to be punched by him." David's face is all serious now, it's almost comical. "Looks like it would hurt."

"You idiot."

You playfully hit his forearm with the dish towel you're using. David bumps his elbow against yours in return and says, "You should tell him."

"Ugh, why do I have to do everything?" you whine jokingly.

"Because we used to do all that before," David replies with a smile. "In a demeaning way. So women emancipated. And now they do everything because they're proud of it."

"You know what?" you tell him, returning the friendly smile. "I like that."

"Be proud of it. Admitting your feelings isn't a weakness. If anything, it's the bravest thing you'll ever do."

"Probably," you trail off, heart beating fast all over again. "Just the thought of it is terrifying, I've to say."

"I understand that, I do. Relationships are freaking scary. But why not take a risk? With risk comes a reward."

"Or not."

David chuckles. "Perhaps. But you said it yourself. You do things with him you don't do with your other friends, so that has to mean something."

"That does not mean he doesn't do the same things with his other friends," you say, glancing for a second at the booth where they all usually sit. You can almost see them sitting around the table, laughing at each other, loud and obnoxious at times, having a good time. You're not sitting there at the moment, it's just them. And it hurts to imagine all the sorts of things they would do if you weren't around. The things they might do when you aren't around.

"Sounds like something you can only discuss with him, you know?" David points out, breaking your chain of imagination. As much as you hate to admit it, he's right. "Even if you don't want to tell him directly, at least give him a hint. Like, a really good one. Something that it's obvious you're talking about you and him. You know how minds work. Sometimes we hear what we want to hear, and other times we hear what we're afraid to hear."

You sigh.

"It'll be better if you get yourself out of that corner of indecision," he adds since you're not saying anything. "And it will put that man out of his misery, too."

"The fuck does that mean?!"

David chuckles, then smiles. "You don't see him when you're not looking, y/n."

It's just your luck that you don't really have time to process what David just said. A fairly big party enters the pub for brunch, and the orders start pouring in. It may be for the best, anyway. You can focus on work now, and later you can focus on how the fuck you're going to give Tom a hint that you like him without really telling him that you like him.

Because the last thing you want to hear is that he doesn't like you in the same way.

~ ⛳️ ~