Emily and Tom

Emily pressed her shoulder to the van door and gave it a good shove. It closed with a clunk that echoed down the little lane behind the high street. The air smelled of warm tarmac and chip fat from the chip shop two doors down. The flat above the shops looked tired but solid, like her: brickwork a bit uneven, paint flaking, but still standing.

She tugged at the waist of her dress where the fabric bunched under her bust. Long hem, long sleeves, even in this heat. The kind of dress that skimmed over hips and thighs without clinging, though she still felt it shift oddly over her belly when she moved. She'd worn it anyway. She always did, something with shape but not too much, a bit of structure to balance out her frame.

She straightened up and looked at the stack of boxes she'd already hauled to the foot of the stairs. It was going to be a long afternoon. Her chest rose and fell, deep and steady, the way it always did when she'd been lifting. Solid thighs and hips, everything working harder than she liked to admit. She dragged her dark fringe back with one hand, the other braced on her hip. A drop of sweat trickled between her shoulder blades.

"Do you want a hand with those?"

The voice startled her. She turned to see a young man stepping out from the charity shop just beside the stairwell. Late twenties, maybe. Pale, slightly gawky build, but a warm expression. He sported a neat haircut, glasses, and a faded jumper with the name of a band she hadn't heard of stitched in orange.

"I'm Tom," he said. "I help out in the shop. I saw you earlier, thought you might need a bit of muscle."

Emily laughed softly. "You calling yourself muscle?"

Tom's ears went pink. "Fair point. But I'm not bad with a box or two."

She considered him for a moment. There was no smugness in his offer, just quiet eagerness. And she was knackered.

"Alright then," she said. "But if you break anything, you're out of here."

They got to work, and to her surprise, it was easy. He didn't chatter nervously, didn't make a show of it. Just followed her lead, asking now and then where things should go. Inside, the flat was a mess of half-unpacked life. Camera gear, old cushions, photo albums, mugs without handles.

"Wow," he said, crouching to look at a framed print she'd rested against the skirting. A bride laughing in the rain, her veil plastered to her cheeks.

"Yours?"

"Mm." Emily tugged her sleeves down. "I do weddings, mostly. I used to do more. Portraits, bits of art, but, you know. Rent."

"It's beautiful," he said, gently. "She looks... so alive. Like you love her."

Emily blinked. No one had said that about her work in years.

"I was soaked to the bone," she murmured, looking away.

"Worth it."

There was a long pause. She felt something shift. Nothing grand. Just... noticed.

"You want a coffee?"

He nodded, quickly. "Yes. Oh. No I'd better get back to work... the shop. It's not really work, not really."

"Not like up here then?"

"No, and the bosses are much easier going."

She laughed and threw a cloth at him. He ducked with a grin on the way out.

~~~~~~~~

The kettle for her mid-morning coffee clicked off and Emily turned to find Tom at her door, peering at the bookshelf as if it might offer him advice.

"You again," she said, smiling. "Didn't think I had anything left for you to carry."

He looked up, hands in his jacket pockets. "I was just... passing. The door was open and I thought I'd see how you were settling in."

"Mm-hmm. You pass through my stairwell often, do you?"

He grinned, and something in her softened. He had that youthful openness about him, the sort that didn't expect much and so was always grateful when he was given anything. She liked that. She didn't get that from men, normally. What she got was either a sort of distant politeness, or worse, leering admiration quickly followed by disappointment when she turned out to be a woman with opinions and thighs.

"Well, since you're here," she said, already reaching behind her, "you can help me decide if this sofa goes there or there."

Tom blinked, glanced past her shoulder at the low two-seater still half-swaddled in a dust sheet. "Alright," he said. "What are our options?"

"Against that wall," she pointed, "or the one with the plug socket, but then it's opposite the window and you'll get glare."

"No telly, though, right?" he asked, stepping inside properly.

"Still," she said. "I don't want to sit squinting every evening like I've got early cataracts."

He made a show of inspecting the corners. "Wall with the socket's good. Gives you the option of a lamp or something."

"Right," she said. "Help me shift it?"

He took one end without complaint. She watched him get a grip, then adjusted the angle of the other side. "Turn it, yeah, like that. Careful, mind the skirting, that's my deposit you're scraping. Lift your end a bit more, no, more than that. There, perfect."

They shuffled it into place and she stepped back, frowning. "Hmm. No, actually. Back to the other wall."

He didn't say a word. Just turned and hoisted his end again.

By the time she'd got the rug unrolled and the old low bookcase stacked with books, he'd taken off his jacket and was pushing up his sleeves.

"Chair next," she said. "Corner. Angle it in. Too far, just a smidge back. There."

He glanced at her, slightly flushed from the effort. "Smidge?"

She grinned. "Highly technical term."

The morning slid into afternoon like that. She directed and unpacked, he carried and set up. Cushions. Lamps. Boxes marked 'kitchen maybe' that definitely had books inside. By the time he sank onto the floor, back against the bare wall, his hair was sticking to his forehead and there was a large dusty smudge across one cheekbone.

She stood over him, hands on hips. "I'm being a bit much, aren't I?"

He looked up at her, blinking. "What?"

"I'm barking orders like you're getting paid."

He laughed, properly this time. "I didn't notice. You know what you want, that's all."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment or a polite way of saying I'm bossy?"

"Compliment," he said at once. "You're direct. It's nice. Makes it easy."

Her stomach gave a small, traitorous flutter. She ignored it. She set her mug down and moved toward the old wooden box she used for storing prints. Without thinking, she knelt and started pulling out some of her portrait work.

"I thought you might like these," she said, suddenly bashful. "You seemed interested."

He sat cross-legged on the floor beside her. They didn't speak for a long while. Just leafed through image after image, mothers and sons, old couples in armchairs, laughing women, boys trying not to smile.

"I like this one," he said.

Emily glanced over. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "It's not perfect. The light's a bit harsh. But it feels like... him. You caught a real moment."

She looked at the photo again. It wasn't one of her favourites and in truth she'd thought about binning it.

"Maybe," she said. "But thanks."

When they reached the end of the pile, she sat back on her heels and blew out a breath.

"I've been staring at these too long."

Tom smiled. "I like what you've shown me. You've got a feel."

"What kind of feel?"

He shrugged, thoughtful. "Unpolished. Honest. Like you're not trying to make people look flawless, just seen. As they are."

She blinked. "You should write my tagline," she said.

He laughed. "No thanks. I'll stick to carrying boxes and making tea."

"Still," she said, nudging his knee. "It was a nice thing to say. Not everyone gets what I'm trying to do."

He looked a little bashful, pleased.

"I do see what you're doing," he said. "Not just with the lens. The way you talk to people. You make them let their guard down."

Emily looked down at the pile of prints again, at the one she nearly threw away. She picked it up and set it on top.

"Thanks," she said quietly. "I needed a reminder."

Tom gave her a soft smile. "I think you just needed someone to say the truth."

The room felt too warm.

Emily looked at him. Really looked. He was sat on the floor, back to the wall, legs stretched out in front like a schoolboy waiting for the bell. His hands rested on his knees, broad-palmed, pale-skinned, dust smudged across one knuckle. No rings. His jumper had ridden up a bit at the wrist, showing the pale line of his forearm. His posture was soft, unguarded. The way people sat when they weren't trying to impress anyone.

He wasn't flashy. Wasn't trying to impress with jokes or cleverness. He was just there, quietly tuned in. To her.

She thought, with no ceremony: He wants me.

It came out of nowhere. It was ridiculous. Completely mad. She was forty-seven. He was, what, late twenties, maybe? She had twenty years on him, give or take. She was soft in all the wrong places and no amount of cinched waistlines or flowing sleeves could disguise it. Men didn't usually want women like her. Not in the long run. Not unless it was something to tick off, or the novelty of it. She knew the difference between being desired and being chosen and she'd stopped mistaking one for the other a long time ago.

Don't be stupid, the voice inside her said, low and hard. You're not daft. You're not desperate. Don't make this into something it isn't.

She shifted her weight, suddenly too aware of the way her dress clung when she bent. She picked up a cushion just for something to do.

Tom was saying something about one of the portraits, an old man in a wool cap, sitting alone on a bench, but Emily wasn't really listening. Not to the words. She was watching his mouth. The way he spoke with care, choosing each phrase like it mattered.

The thought remained tucked away in the folds of her mind like a letter she hadn't opened. What if.

She reached for her tea and as she did, let her hand brush his forearm. Just lightly. A flicker. She didn't draw back straight away.

He didn't flinch. Didn't stiffen or change the subject. Instead, his voice faltered for the briefest second, a breath catching between syllables, and then he continued, steadier, but his cheeks were a shade pinker.

Her fingers stayed there. Warm skin under soft hair. He looked at her, properly now.

"You okay?" he asked, and his tone was something new. Open, but attentive, as if waiting for a cue.

Emily nodded. "Just thinking."

He didn't push. Just gave a small smile, a little tilt of the head.

So she let her hand rest fully on his arm. "You're very kind to help me today," she said, quietly.

"I just like being around you."

He didn't make it sound clever. It wasn't a line. It was true. She could feel that.

They sat like that for a while. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. She became aware of how close he was, how easy it would be to lean forward, to press her mouth to his neck, to feel what he might do if she guided him gently down.

But she didn't.

Instead, she gave his arm a light squeeze, then withdrew. Set her mug down, stood, stretched.

"I should unpack a bit more," she said. "You've got work in the morning?"

"Just sorting books," he said, rising to his feet too. "But I should go. Leave you to it."

He paused at the door. "Can I come by again?"

She didn't hesitate. "Yes. Please."

~~~~~~~~

It was Thursday afternoon when she heard the knock. Three quick raps, followed by a pause. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and opened the door.

Tom stood there, a book in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

"I brought biscuits," he said. "And I thought you might like this."

She took the book first. Portraits of a Nation, a chunky hardback she recognised but had never owned. "From the shop?"

"Yeah," he said. "It came in one of the donation boxes. I saved it for you."

Her chest tightened, oddly. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

She let him in without another word. The flat still smelled faintly of paint and lemon wood polish, but it was starting to feel like hers now. A new rug down. Curtains up. Two of her favourite prints framed above the small two-seater.

"Biscuits?" he offered, already moving to the kitchen with the ease of someone who had begun to belong.

She watched him. He looked good in dark jeans and a washed-out grey hoodie. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd rushed over after a shower. There was a sheen to his skin, a little glow she found oddly stirring.

"I was hoping," he said, handing her a custard cream, "you might show me how your camera works."

"Which one?"

He shrugged. "Whichever you use for people. Like those portraits."

She couldn't quite help the smile. "You want a portrait taken?"

He blushed, but held her gaze. "Yeah. If you don't mind."

Something unfurled inside her. A thrill, deep and heavy.

She retrieved her Canon and adjusted the lens while he stood in front of the window. Light fell soft and golden through the net curtain. He looked uncertain, hands twitching at his sides.

"Relax," she said, gently. "Just look at me."

He did. And she saw it again, that quiet reverence, the way his eyes lingered on her face like he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to.

She took three shots, then lowered the camera. "Come here."

Tom obeyed without question, stepping closer. She reached up, brushing his loose hair aside, fingers grazing his forehead. He didn't flinch. His breath caught though.

Her hand didn't drop. It hovered, then moved of its own accord, fingers brushing the line of his cheek, the soft edge of his jaw. Warm, clean-shaven, the faintest rasp of stubble coming through. He didn't flinch. Didn't lean in, either. Just stood still, gaze steady, like whatever happened next would be entirely her choice.

She was too aware of her own body, of the give in her upper arms, the slight wheeze in her breath from too many stairs, the way her top pulled across her chest. Her leggings had seen better days. She hadn't shaved her legs in a week. And still, her fingers lingered on his skin.

"You really like me, don't you," she said. It came out less like a question and more like disbelief.

"Yes," he breathed. "I do."

Her mouth twisted. She gestured down at herself, at the old sweatshirt with the bleach mark on the hem, the tired black leggings, the bare feet planted wide for balance. "Even like this? Big and messy and out of practice?"

A small voice in her head whispered, He'll laugh. He'll say something kind but evasive. He'll realise you meant it seriously and panic. He'll remember your age, your stomach, your birth year. He'll think of his mum.

But he nodded, not hesitating. "Exactly like this."

The breath caught in her chest. Something opened just enough to let in the possibility. That she might be allowed this. Heat prickled behind her eyes. She blinked it back.

Her thumb moved, tracing the curve of his bottom lip. Soft. A little chapped. He didn't try to kiss her. Didn't push. Just let her touch him like it mattered. She stepped away then, only just, enough to break contact without breaking whatever had settled between them.

"Sit down," she said. Her voice had dropped, steadier now. Rougher.

He obeyed without question, lowering himself cross-legged onto the rug like he belonged there, eyes lifted toward her with that same quiet attention.

Behind her ribs, her heart thudded. She could still call it off. Make a joke. Offer him tea. Pretend it hadn't happened. But the daring part of her, the one that hadn't spoken in years, whispered: or you could keep going, just see where it leads.

Emily crossed to the kitchen without a word. Her legs felt solid beneath her, more grounded than trembling, though her heartbeat hadn't slowed. She filled the kettle, switched it on, opened the cupboard without thinking and pulled down two mismatched mugs. Her hands moved automatically. Tea bags, splash of milk for her, sugar for him. A rhythm she could follow. Something ordinary to hold onto.

She passed him the mug as she returned, and he smiled as he took it, like it meant more than it should've. She sat on the sofa, not quite facing him, not quite angled away. Close enough to feel the warmth of him at her shins.

"I still haven't unpacked fully," she said, glancing at the cardboard towers flanking the room. "I've been pretending it's part of the aesthetic."

He gave a small laugh. "Minimalist chaos."

She smirked into her tea. "Exactly."

They drifted into conversation after that, easy and unhurried. She asked about the charity shop, partly out of curiosity, partly because she genuinely couldn't square it with him. He was bright, articulate, observant. Not the sort you'd expect folding old shirts and pricing paperback thrillers for fifty pence.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, resting his mug on his knee.

"I went into sales after uni," he said. "Property stuff, commercial lettings, negotiations. My dad lined it up before I'd even finished my degree. Said it was practical with good commission. A proper job."

"And was it?"

He gave a dry laugh. "I got pretty good at smiling through my teeth."

She studied him over the rim of her mug. "What changed?"

"Had a panic attack in a Pret," he said. "My whole chest locked up. I couldn't breathe, and I still remember worrying I'd lost my coffee. That was the moment."

Emily said nothing for a moment. Just nodded.

"So the shop?"

"It's quiet," he said. "No one's pretending to be anything. It's just jumpers and old china and people trying to fill an afternoon."

She looked at him for a long moment. "That makes a lot of sense."

He gave her a small smile, almost embarrassed.

"Anyway, " he said, more brightly, "you look like you're a reader. What are you reading at the moment?"

She handed him the dog-eared novel on the windowsill without explaining it. He opened to the middle and read a few lines out loud without being asked. She liked the sound of him reading. It had a calm to it.

Later, she let him help carry a few books to the shelves. She gave instructions without thinking, left stack there, heavier ones on the bottom, and he followed each one as if it were his own idea. They found a tin of loose keys in one of the kitchen boxes and spent half an hour guessing what they were all for. She showed him a broken camera she'd found at a car boot and hadn't had the heart to throw away.

The light shifted as afternoon became evening. She noticed how it made his skin glow, warm and pale, how the pink in his cheeks deepened when he laughed. At one point he reached past her to pick something up, and his arm brushed hers. She didn't move. Neither did he.

They made a basic stir fry for supper. She hadn't intended to feed him, but it felt odd not to. He offered to wash up, and she let him, watching as he tackled the pan from her morning eggs like it was a technical challenge.

By the time he said, "I should probably head off," the sky outside had turned to deep blue. The streets below were quiet, just the odd distant door slam or a burst of laughter drifting up from the pub.

She walked him to the door, arms folded loosely over her chest.

"Thanks for today," he said. "It was... good."

"It was," she agreed, leaning against the frame.

The silence stretched again, but not uncomfortably.

He looked at her. That look. The one that always felt like it saw more than it should.

For a moment, she thought about kissing him. Just a soft, certain press of her mouth to his. But she didn't.

Instead, she reached out and touched his forearm, light and brief.

"Go on, then," she said, voice quiet.

He smiled. Nodded. And stepped out into the hallway.

She watched the stairwell after he'd gone, until the creak of the front door echoed faintly back up to her.

Then she closed the door. Leaned against it and let herself smile.

~~~~~~~~

The next time he came up, one warm afternoon, he brought flowers.

They were awkwardly wrapped, clearly from the supermarket, and slightly squashed from being carried under his arm. But Emily felt her breath catch all the same. Daffodils and irises. Bright, bold things.

"You didn't have to," she murmured.

"I wanted to."

She took them, brushing his fingers as she did, then set them gently in the sink while she looked for something vaguely vase-shaped. Flowers had been a rare gift of late. They ended up in an old glass jug, stems too long and a bit haphazard, but it worked.

"You brighten the room," he said. "Just thought I'd return the favour."

She glanced at him sharply, but he wasn't teasing. Just said it like it was obvious. He stood by the table, unsure again, not assuming anything.

"I was just editing," she said. "Come have a look?"

He sat beside her, close enough that his thigh brushed hers now and then as they leaned over the screen. She showed him a recent shoot: two women in their seventies, best friends since school, laughing in the park with handbags on their knees.

"They're lovely," he said, quietly. "You've got such tenderness in how you see people."

She turned to him. His face was very near.

"Tom," she said, and touched his hand. He went still.

"I'm not good at... all this," she said. "Relationships. I don't flirt, I don't do the games. I'm too tired, and too much of me has gone unspoken for too long."

He looked at her, his eyes wide and open.

"You don't have to pretend with me," he said.

She'd been thinking about it all day. Turning it over like a stone in her pocket.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, still facing the screen before them.

"Of course," he said, instantly. She felt him sit up straighter.

She turned. Her hand went to her mouth, then dropped to her thigh. "Do you... like me? Properly. Not just friendly-like."

Tom's eyes didn't flick away. He didn't hesitate, didn't smile to soften it.

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

He said it simply, like it didn't cost him anything, though it landed in her chest like a blow. She drew in a slow breath.

"Because I like you too," she said. "I just... I need it to be on my terms."

Tom's brow furrowed, gently. "Okay."

"I mean it," she said. "I've had men before who smiled nice, then pushed and prodded until I wasn't sure what I'd agreed to. Until everything became about what they wanted. What they thought I should be."

He didn't speak. Just watched her, still and open. Not leaning forward. Not reaching. Just giving her the space she needed to say it all.

"And the thing is," she went on, "you're what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?"

"Twenty-nine," he said, quietly.

She gave a small, humourless laugh. "Right. I'm forty-seven. Which means you weren't even in school when I was falling in love with the wrong men."

He stayed quiet, but not in a way that felt evasive. Just patient. There.

She folded her arms, not to close herself off, but to keep her hands from shaking. "And I know how that sounds. I know I'm not supposed to say it out loud. But it's there. Every time you look at me like that. Every time I wonder if I'm imagining it, or if it's just a phase you'll grow out of. I ask myself if I'll be something you remember fondly one day and cringe about later."

Tom's mouth twitched, like he might speak, but he didn't interrupt.

She took a breath. "I spent years trying to fit what other people wanted. I tried to be younger. Lighter. Easier. I dyed my hair, I said yes when I meant maybe. I kept quiet when men talked over me. I tried to pretend that being wanted was the same as being valued."

She paused, jaw set.

"But a few years ago, I gave it up. All of it. I stopped apologising for the body I live in. I stopped pretending I was okay with being a nice idea rather than a real person. I don't need fixing. I don't need validating. And I will not be someone's experiment."

"I like who I am now. I like how I look, even when I don't love it. I eat what I want, I wear what I like, and I sleep alone because I'd rather be in bed with my own thoughts than next to someone who doesn't want this version of me."

Tom's eyes hadn't left hers.

"So if you're here because you're curious," she said, voice steady now, "or because you've got a thing for older women and think I'll be flattered, you should go."

He shook his head, slow and certain. "That's not why I'm here."

"Good," she said. "Because if we're going to do this, whatever this is, it goes at my pace. And if that's a problem, better to know now."

He nodded. "It's not a problem."

Her arms dropped to her sides.

"Alright," she said. "Then we see where it goes."

He put his mug down, carefully, and shifted so he was sitting facing her.

"I think you're brilliant," he said. "And if your pace is glacial, I'll wait. Happily. I'll even bring a coat and a flask of tea."

A laugh escaped her. She pressed her hand to her mouth, then shook her head. "You're such a bloody oddball."

He grinned. "Takes one to know one."

The silence after was softer. She moved to sit on the sofa, curling one leg beneath her, facing him now.

"I'm not used to this," she said. "Setting the pace."

"Then take your time learning," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

For the first time all day, she let herself relax into the cushion. She looked at him across the space between sofa and desk. Her heart thudded, not fast exactly, but thick, each beat distinct, deliberate, like it was giving her time to change her mind.

Instead, she held out her hand.

Tom glanced at it, then back up at her face. Whatever he saw there made him move without question. He rose to feet, and stepped carefully round the low table. He took her hand in his like it was something fragile.

He was warm. That was the first thing she noticed. Solid and warm, fingers curling gently round hers. She tugged lightly and he followed, sinking down beside her on the sofa.

She turned towards him, her other hand came to rest on his chest, just above the line of his jumper. His breath hitched, just enough for her to feel it. His hand brushed her cheek. Still no rush, no pressure. Just quiet contact.

She leaned in first. He met her halfway.

Their lips touched once, softly. A pause. Then again, a little firmer. Her hand slipped up to the back of his neck and his rested at her waist, fingers barely pressing. There was a tremble in her, light and startling, like a bell being struck low and slow.

He kissed like he meant it, but not like he was trying to prove anything. Just attentive and responsive. When she tilted her head slightly, his mouth adjusted without hesitation. When she parted her lips, he followed with a quiet breath that sent a sudden flutter straight to her stomach.

She hadn't been kissed like this in years. Not properly. Not like someone was tasting her carefully, tenderly, learning her mouth as if it mattered.

A tiny spark zipped through her spine. Her skin felt too light, her limbs too loose, like gravity had eased its grip. She was slightly light-headed, like the moment before a laugh or the first sip of wine on an empty stomach. Her belly fluttered once, hard, and she nearly pulled back in surprise, but she didn't.

It felt too good. Too right.

She kept kissing him, and he kept kissing her, and the shape of it shifted slowly, growing deeper, more certain. A rhythm found itself. Her hands moved to his shoulders. His thumb traced the underside of her jaw.

When they finally paused, just enough to breathe, their faces still close, noses brushing, her lips felt tingly. She met his eyes. He was smiling.

"So," she said, breathless.

"So," he echoed, voice low.

She laughed softly. "That was... unexpected."

"I liked it," he murmured.

She nodded, resting her forehead briefly against his. "Me too. Me too."

They stayed close for a moment, the hush between them soft and charged, like the air before a storm. Then she shifted, slowly drawing back, eyes flicking toward the hallway.

"It's getting warm," she said, voice quiet. "I'm just going to freshen up."

He gave a small nod. "Okay."

She stood, smoothing the hem of her top, and padded barefoot across the rug, into the hallway, the lamp behind her casting her shadow long. The bathroom door stuck halfway before giving way with a familiar groan. She stepped inside, clicked the lock, and leaned on the sink, fingers gripping porcelain.

The fan ticked behind her, a soft mechanical whirr. Her reflection stared back, hair tousled, lips kissed pink, eyes wide and unsure.

He's too young. The thought landed sharply. He'll get bored. Wake up and realise. You'll be a story he tells one day. "That older woman in the flat above the charity shop."

She shut her eyes. Exhaled slowly.

But he hasn't looked at you like that. Not once. Not with pity. Just a calm openness. Like he saw her as someone whole, not a compromise. She felt it in the way he touched her, tentative, sure, but not tentative because of her. Tentative because he cared.

She'd rushed before. Been convinced. Been fooled. And there were bruises from that. Emotional ones that hadn't faded, no matter how much she dressed them up in hindsight.

But this felt different. He felt different.

She touched her lips. They still tingled.

She could still call it off. Tell him goodnight. Make tea. Say she was tired. That would be fair.

Or she could dare it.

She opened the door. He was still on the sofa, legs folded, hands loose in his lap. He looked up at her without expectation, just that same quiet readiness. The soft corners of a patient smile.

She stood in the doorway, heart thudding and held out her hand to him.

The bedroom was warm, the window cracked an inch to let in the night air. Emily lifted one foot to the edge of the bed, and began to peel off her leggings, slow and methodical. She didn't rush and she didn't perform. Her back was to him. She knew he was watching.

She stepped out of them and let them crumple to the floor. Her sweatshirt came next, tugged over her head in one clean motion, folded once and draped over the chair. She unclipped her bra, reached behind without thinking, and dropped it onto the seat.

The light from the hallway caught the side of her belly, the line of her hip. Her body was thick in the middle, hips soft, thighs marked with old stretch lines and the faint shadow of years. It wasn't something she thought about anymore. Not since she'd stopped trying to be anything else. The shape she was, full and solid and ageing, had stopped surprising her long ago.

She turned, catching Tom's eye where he stood by the bed, still clothed, still quiet.

He didn't speak. Just watched her with that same attentive expression. Like she was simply herself, and that was enough.

She stepped closer, barefoot on the wooden floor. "Still alright?"

He nodded, a touch too fast.

She raised an eyebrow. "Then breathe. You look like you're bracing for something."

He laughed under his breath, then exhaled properly.

"You're stunning," he said quietly.

She snorted, half-laughing. "You don't have to say that."

"I'm not," he replied. "It's not a line. I'm looking at you."

Her eyes burned, just a little.

"You make me want to stand up straight," she said, voice rough with emotion.

Tom kissed her shoulder, then the soft slope of her upper arm.

"Good," he murmured. "Because I want all of you. Not broken into pieces, not what you think is acceptable. Just you."

She hooked her thumbs in her knickers and pulled them over her hips, allowing them to fall to the ground slowly. Still watching him.

And he didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just smiled, soft and dumbstruck.

By the time she was fully bare, she felt shaky. But something had shifted. She wasn't hiding. She wasn't pretending.

She was standing in front of him, completely herself and for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough. Her skin prickled with the cool air, but she didn't move to cover herself. Not now. Not with him looking at her like that.

Tom didn't speak. He didn't step forward to kiss her or wrap her in an embrace.

Instead, slowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees in front of her.

He just rested there, arms loosely at his sides, head gently pressed against the soft rise of her belly.

His breath was warm and steady. She felt it through her skin, subtle and rhythmic.

Emily stood still, the backs of her thighs just brushing the edge of the bed. One hand hung at her side. The other hovered midair, caught mid-thought. She looked down at him. Still dressed but flushed and quiet. Not looking up. Not saying a word. Just there.

Her heart beat once, hard, and then everything went very still.

She realised, in that moment, that he wasn't unsure. He wasn't stalling. He wasn't lost.

He was offering. Asking her to take the next step. Asking her to lead.

And something inside her rose to meet it, a rush of strength that filled her limbs and settled deep in her belly. Not because she had power over him, but because he'd trusted her with it. Willingly and calmly.

She brought her hand to the back of his head, her fingers sliding into his hair. Firm, but not tight. He didn't flinch. Didn't tense. His breath deepened slightly, but he stayed exactly where he was, head resting against her stomach, waiting.

She could feel his weight now. Not just physically, but emotionally. His full attention ground into her. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't trying to steer.

She took a breath. Let her thumb move gently across the nape of his neck.

"All right," she murmured.

He didn't speak. Just exhaled, long and low, as if he'd been holding that breath for hours.

She smiled then. Slow and certain. He'd offered, and she'd accepted.

She guided him, slow and unhurried, until his lips pressed where she wanted. His hands followed next. She placed them too. One on her thigh. One at her hip.

He moved only as she directed. Nothing more.

It was subtle, this power. No flash of dominance. No barked commands. Just a realisation that she was no longer bending to someone else's desire, she was defining it,

She closed her eyes and let the sensation settle in her chest, the feel of him pressing deeper into her. She could feel her growing heat as he explored and searched. She led him upwards until he hit her spot and she kept him there, her chest heaving, until her legs were ready to fail.

She eased him away, reluctantly but necessarily. His face shone in the weak light, as she pulled him up, kissing him lightly on the lips, before taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

He stood in front of her, head at a slight angle, waiting for her.

Her skin was hot, her breath slowing. She didn't cover herself. She just looked up at him, calmly, until he met her gaze.

"Come here," she said.

He stepped closer. The lamp cast a soft gold along his collarbones, the cotton of his t-shirt stretched just a little where it clung to his shoulders. He was neither sculpted nor slight, just a man in the soft prime of his body, built from years of living rather than training. A little slope to the belly. Strong legs. Forearms that looked used, not shaped.

She reached for the hem of his hoodie and he raised his arms automatically. She drew the fabric up, slow, watching the skin reveal inch by inch. First the narrow trail of hair below his navel, then the dip just beneath his ribs, the faint press of muscle. She pulled it over his head and dropped it to one side without looking.

He stood still, chest rising and falling. She reached out and placed her hand flat against it, just left of centre. His heartbeat thrummed beneath her palm, solid and fast.

"You're lovely," she said. Not a compliment. A fact.

His eyes softened, but he didn't speak.

Her hands went to his belt next. He didn't help. Didn't fumble to assist. Just let her take her time, undoing it slowly, the quiet snick of metal giving way. She unfastened the button, tugged the zip down, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband.

She looked up at him. "Step out."

He did, carefully, and she peeled the jeans down as he moved, the denim stiff from wear, catching at his knees before giving way. She folded them once and dropped them by the chair. Left him standing there in plain cotton pants, pale grey, worn soft from washing.

She could see the shape of him through the material, a sizable, heavy bulge. She fought the urge to touch it there, to feel the contours and hear him gasp. Slower, she told herself. She counted to five then traced the edge of his hipbone with one finger, following the dip beneath the elastic.

He swallowed. She felt the movement in his belly.

"You okay?" she asked, softly.

He nodded. "Yeah."

She nodded back, fingers slipping beneath the waistband. "Good."

She drew them down, slow, not for show but for ease. He stepped free again, a little awkward this time. His body responded in ways he couldn't control, but he didn't try to hide it.

She looked at him fully now. Took in the hair along his thighs, the curve of his calves, the soft shift of his weight from one foot to the other, almost not daring to look at what she knew was there.

"Bloody hell, Tom!"

Tom met her searching eyes and gave her a sheepish half-smile.

He hung long and thick, more than anything she'd seen in the flesh before. Her thighs squeezed tight at the thought of what he'd feel like inside her, the sharp, delicious ache he'd leave. She noted the flawless contour of him, the flushed crown already swelling with desire.

She needed to feel him, to hold the weight of him, to taste him. Fuck, she was coming apart just thinking about it. She placed one hand on his abdomen, just for connection, and the other closed around him, the girth stretching her fingers deliciously. A pulse rippled through his cock, and his belly tightened under her touch, muscles twitching in response.

She lifted him and ran her hand along his length, thumb caressing the few clear drops that were gathering at the tip. His breath cracked as she squeezed and drew her hand back, exposing him fully to the cool air and her hot breath. Leaning forward she swirled her tongue around him and almost giggled at the way his body jolted. Eyes locked with his, she parted her lips and slowly took him in. His gaze burned bright and hungry, fingers flexing helplessly by his sides. He didn't look away, didn't blink, utterly transfixed as her mouth closed tight and warm around him.

For a heartbeat, everything felt unfamiliar. The thick, hot weight of him filling her mouth, the velvet skin moving gently under her tongue. It had been ages since she'd done this, since she'd felt the rush of power that came with each muffled groan escaping his lips. His taste was salt-edged and faintly sweet, earthy in a way she'd forgotten, yet so achingly familiar. Her heart hammered at the sheer intimacy of it, at the subtle quiver in his thighs, at the tightening of muscles beneath her steadying palm. Yes, she decided, this felt good. This felt right.

She lingered just a little longer, savouring the pulse that beat gently against her tongue. Then, releasing him carefully, Emily took hold of his hand and lay back. He followed, one knee between her legs, then another as she took position, opening for him. His hand hovered uncertainly just above her hip, fingers trembling with restraint. Emily reached up and took it gently, placing it where she wanted it.

"Here," she said. "I'll tell you when I want more."

He leaned in but hesitated, just a breath away from her lips. His lips parted slightly, uncertain, waiting for her lead.

She didn't wait. She kissed him slowly, deliberately, taking full control of the pace. One hand to the back of his neck, the other against his arm.

When she drew away, he looked dazed.

"Next time," she said, "you don't ask with your eyes. You ask with your mouth."

He gave the slightest of nods and then leaned down and kissed her again. She met him without hesitation, lips parting, her tongue pressing against his with quiet urgency. The taste of him was warm and familiar already yet it was something she'd begun to crave.

"I need to feel you now," she murmured. "Inside me. Filling me. Slowly."

She could feel the heat of him, pressed against her wetness, just waiting for her. He pressed his hips forward and pushed inwards, parting her. She gasped without thinking as she felt herself stretching to accommodate his hardness.

At the sound, he held himself still, checking her face quickly. She clasped around his back, and breathed into his ear: "I need all of you."

He pushed, harder now, not holding back.

"Oh fuck," the words slipping out before she'd had time to think. The stretch was pain, but a joyous one, a needed one. She'd never felt anything like it before. Her head fell back, eyes lidded as she sank into the overwhelming feeling of him inside her.

She drew her knees up, desperately trying to give him more room, more depth. Then his lips were on her neck, kissing, searching, soothing. His body held still for a moment, then he pulled back and thrust into her, sending her spinning.

"Mmmfffh," she gasped.

"You okay," he asked gently, concern in his eyes.

"Yeah," she managed after catching her breath. "It's..."

"I can..."

"No!" she barked, then laughed and continued more evenly. "No, don't you dare!"

He grinned and kissed her. She reciprocated fiercely, her fingers pulling his face into hers.

She felt him slide gently out, leaving behind a yearning emptiness before pushing back with rising urgency. He built to a steady rhythm, his breath hot on her neck.

Emily grasped at him like she had fallen into the roiling ocean and he was passing driftwood, offering the only chance of survival. Her hips ground in time with his thrusts, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her breasts pressed tight under his weight.

The tightness in her abdomen was growing. Somehow, against all prior experience, this man was going to make her come simply by fucking her. The build was almost agonising, it was there and it grew and it never seemed to reach a limit.

Her right hand scrabbled for the sheet, clenching as the wave broke over her.

"Oh... my... fucking... god...!" she screamed. He looked startled but to his credit he didn't let up, he thrust into her at a steady pace, prolonging her climax, building it more even.

Beyond all expectations, without touching herself, she had just had one of the strongest orgasms of her life and there was a lingering feeling that she wasn't done. The beautiful, addictive stretch of her cunt where his cock entered was answered deep inside her.

"You're so beautiful Em," he gasped, "so so beautiful..."

Fingers in her hair, lips at the side of her neck, the sound of his effort. She felt herself rising again.

"Keep going," she managed, forcing her eyes open to meet his. He had that glassy look and she could tell he was close.

"Keep going," she mouthed. "I need you... to... *

Another orgasm wracked her body, convulsing her. He rode it with her, stretching and filling.

"FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK", someone was yelling. It might have been her. The shakes in her became tremors then faded to the ever present hum of stretch and friction.

She was slicker than she could ever remember, sweat and juices mingling on her skin. He thrust harder now, breaths ragged and deep. She shifted her legs, pulling him closer, feeling every stroke keenly. Eyes locked, she cupped his cheek in one hand, gripping his arm firmly with the other.

"Now," she whispered steadily, "Let go." She kissed him softly. "For me."

He groaned, hips faltering. "I'm... close... I'm..."

She silenced him with lips and tongue, deep and urgent, as he shuddered and surged inside her, shaking like something breaking loose. His lips pressed hard against hers, body taut, until finally, spent, he sank into her embrace.

He stayed on top of her for a while, face buried in the curve of her neck, his breath hot and uneven against her skin. Emily held him tight against her, savouring his warmth and weight.

Eventually he rolled away, sliding out of her, leaving behind an emptiness that tugged at her sharply. Her hand slipped instinctively downwards, fingers tracing the swollen, tender skin now slick with both of them.

They lay quietly, breathing slowing in the dim light. Emily's fingers reached for Tom's hand, gripping firmly. He squeezed back, turning slowly to meet her eyes.

"Thank you," he said, simply.

Emily turned her head toward him on the pillow. His hair was still damp at the temples, his mouth pink from kissing. She reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw, a touch that was more about connection than comfort.

"That was wonderful," she said. "You were wonderful. And I don't mean just..." She let the rest trail off, giving a small shrug instead. "You were easy to be with. That's not nothing."

Tom's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was close. "It felt... right. I don't really know what we're doing, but it felt like something."

She gave a small nod. "Yeah. Same."

They lay quiet again, the half-light softening the angles of the room. Emily shifted onto her side, pulling the sheet with her, not cold, just more comfortable that way. She didn't expect him to move. But he did.

A moment passed. Then his arm came round her waist and he settled behind her, not pressing, just there. Steady. He was warm. His body fitted neatly along her back, his legs folding into the shape of hers like he'd done it before.

She didn't say anything. Just let it happen.

Her hand found his again beneath the sheet, and she folded her fingers through his. No squeeze. No flourish. Just the quiet act of staying close.

She didn't want sleep. Not yet. What she needed was this. His arm firm around her middle, his palm resting flat and quiet just below her ribs. The weight of it was anchoring.

She'd forgotten what it felt like, to be held without being handled. No wandering hands, no pressure. Just warmth and presence, like he understood she needed to be kept, for now, not claimed.

So she stayed where she was, breathing in time with him, her fingers still twined loosely with his. Awake, but resting. Holding and being held. And that was enough.

At first she thought it was the shift of his breathing, or the natural stir of someone beginning to doze. But then she felt it, clearer now, the shape of him pressing against her again.

A slow smile tugged at her mouth, one she didn't bother hiding.

She reached back without turning, fingers brushing over his thigh, then pausing. A light, amused touch, nothing more.

"Really?" she said, voice dry but warm. "Already?"

He gave a soft huff of a laugh into the space just behind her ear.

She let her fingers rest for a moment longer, then gave his leg a light pat.

"You're either showing off," she murmured, "or I've underestimated you."

He said nothing, but she felt the smallest shift of his mouth against her shoulder, a smile she didn't need to see to recognise. Then he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the back of her neck, barely more than a breath against her skin. Then another, lower this time, his mouth warm and careful. His hand shifted at her waist, slipping upward in a slow arc, until his palm rested across her chest.

She tilted her hips back, a small shift, deliberate. The shape of him pressed more firmly against her, hot and solid. Her hand slipped behind her, fingers curling around him, guiding him where she was already slick and aching.

"Go slow," she murmured. "Just follow me."

He breathed in sharply, then nodded, mouth brushing her shoulder.

She felt the head of him slide against her, slick and ready, and then the first press, slow, careful, his length nudging into her inch by inch. She drew in a long breath, letting her body open, her muscles loosening around him as he filled her. She exhaled, low and steady, her eyes fluttering shut as her body stretched to take him. Her hand stayed there, feeling the slide of him, the slick give of her own body around him. She held him there for a moment, just to feel the connection, the way her body had opened to him again so easily.

He paused once he was all the way in, buried deep, their bodies locked tight. Then she drew her hand forward, down over the soft heat between her thighs, the swollen ache that pulsed beneath the slickness. She touched herself with slow, deliberate strokes, her fingers moving in tight, precise circles.

When he began to move, it was with restraint. Slow, steady strokes, hips rolling against her with reverence. He kept one arm hooked around her waist, their fingers still twined low across her belly. The other found her breast, cupping it gently, thumb circling her nipple in lazy, teasing passes.

"You feel..." he began, voice broken, "Emily..."

"Don't talk," she whispered. "Just stay with me."

She moved her fingers faster, chasing the tight pull building inside her. Her other hand gripped his forearm, steadying herself as the pleasure coiled harder and hotter at her centre. Every stroke of him, every roll of her fingers brought her closer.

Every thrust was deliberate, the pace unhurried, the rhythm intimate and deep. The long, slow grind of skin on skin, the slick sound of him working inside her, her thighs parting just enough to take him more fully.

Her breath came in quiet, open-mouthed sighs. She could feel the stretch, the fullness, the low ache beginning to bloom deep in her belly. Her body clenched around him on instinct, drawing him closer, tighter.

He groaned softly behind her, lips brushing her neck. "Fuck, Emily..."

"Don't stop," she whispered. "Just like that."

And he didn't. He kept going, smooth and deep, every movement hitting the place she wanted. She arched her back slightly, changing the angle, and the next thrust made her gasp.

His hand gripped hers tighter, their fingers locked hard now, like he needed the anchor as much as she did.

It built between them, low, slow, inevitable. That ache pulling tighter, pleasure blooming like a hot coil inside her. She bit her bottom lip, one hand reaching back to clutch at his hip.

He lost control first. His breath caught, then broke, and he pressed deep with a low, desperate groan against her neck, his hand grasping her breast. She felt him pulse inside her, the heat of it, the sudden tension in his whole body as he came, hips grinding hard into her. The feeling of him, thick, and spilling, sent a jolt through her, sharp and immediate. Her own climax followed like a pulled thread, ripping through her in slow, relentless waves. She cried out, soft and open, her body tightening around him, shaking with the force of it as they clung together, tangled and breathless.

They stayed there, locked together, still joined. The sheet was damp beneath Emily's back, but she didn't move. Tom's head rested just below her collarbone, his hand sprawled across her stomach, fingers lightly brushing her skin with each slow breath.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The silence wasn't awkward, it was the kind that only followed something that had mattered.

She could still feel the throb of him inside her, even though he was soft now, and spent. The ache was sweet, low in her belly. Her thighs slick, the scent of sex thick on both their skin. She liked the weight of him on her. Liked knowing he hadn't rushed to move. But she could also feel time ticking at the edge of the moment, morning creeping closer.

Tom stirred slightly, shifting to look up at her. His hair stuck up at odd angles, his face soft and unguarded.

"I, um..." he began, then cleared his throat. "I want to keep seeing you. If that's what you want."

She looked down at him, her fingers stroking idly along his shoulder. There was hesitation in his voice, a flicker of doubt in his eyes that didn't belong. She brushed it away with a look.

"Of course I do," she said.

The simplicity of it seemed to settle something in him. His mouth lifted in that small, quiet smile of his, the one that always seemed half surprised by its own luck.

She let her hand slide into his hair, holding him there for a moment longer. She didn't want him to go. Not really. The thought of him leaving made something in her chest pull tight. But she had a shoot in the morning. Her gear still in half-packed cases, batteries to charge, memory cards to clear. She needed sleep. She needed space. She needed to be sharp.

Still, her voice was gentle when she said, "I've got work early. A shoot. I need to get up and be someone."

He nodded against her skin. "Of course. Right. Yeah."

"No rush," she added, though she knew they both felt the moment begin to shift.

They untangled slowly. She sat up first, gathering the sheet around her as he searched quietly for his clothes. She watched him dress, pulling his hoodie on backwards at first, then laughing under his breath and fixing it. She liked the way he moved.

As she stood to walk him to the door, she felt the heat between her legs with every step. Not soreness, just the memory of being filled, of being taken exactly the way she wanted.

It mattered. For the first time, she wasn't adjusting to someone else's pace. She wasn't yielding, compensating, smoothing over. She had led. Set the rhythm. Spoken the words. And he'd followed.

At the door, he hesitated.

"I'll see you soon?" he asked.

She reached up and kissed him, slow and warm, her hand at the side of his face.

"Soon," she said.

When he turned to go, she watched him descend the stairs through the frosted pane, his shadow stretched long in the hall light. Only after the door clicked shut below did she let the air go from her lungs.

She wasn't sure what this was, not yet. But she liked the shape of it. Liked where it was going. And this time, for once, it would go the way she chose.

~~~~~~~~

It was just after the speeches, when everyone was full of booze and sentimentality. Emily crouched behind a screen of roses with a long lens, catching the father of the bride wiping his eyes and the groom sneaking a kiss against his new wife's shoulder. The usual moments. She adjusted the aperture, shifted her weight off her bad knee, and pressed the shutter.

Click. Click. Pause.

The image on the screen was clean, well-balanced, perfect for the album. But her thoughts drifted, sliding sideways in the quiet.

Tom.

Not last night, exactly, though her body still felt the echo of it, the slow grind of him inside her, the weight of him behind her in bed, his breath steady against her neck. Not just that. It was all the things before. Him in the kitchen making tea while she curled up with a blanket, his voice reading from the novel she'd left on the windowsill. His hand finding hers without looking.

She hadn't gone searching for him. Hadn't gone looking for anyone, really. She wasn't on the market. Wasn't hungry for romance or aching for someone to fill the quiet.

But then there he was. This quiet, gentle, maddeningly sincere young man... young man, she reminded herself, again... and he looked at her like she was the start of something.

And somehow, impossibly, she hadn't pushed him away.

She stood, wiped her hands on her skirt, and scanned the marquee. The guests were mingling again, drinks replenished, cheeks flushed. The bride's mother waved her over for a family shot. Emily smiled, nodded, and adjusted her strap.

It wasn't until later, when the couple danced their first dance and the room fell into that soft, golden hush, that she caught her own reflection in one of the tall windows lining the tent.

Just for a second.

Wind-blown hair, shirt loose at the collar, camera slung across her chest. A flush high in her cheeks from the sun and the work. She looked capable. Unapologetic. Herself.

But there was something else, too. A softness around her mouth. The echo of laughter behind her eyes. The afterglow of being wanted in a way that didn't demand anything in return.

She looked like a woman someone adored.

The thought startled her. Not in a frightening way. More like a sharp intake of breath.

She looked down at her camera, thumb brushing the dial, and thought of his hands on her skin. His voice in the dark. The way he'd whispered her name so quietly into her shoulder she'd almost convinced herself she'd imagined it.

Then she raised her lens again and snapped a picture of the mirror. She liked the look of the woman she saw, wanted to keep her forever.

Her lips curved into a smile she didn't try to suppress.

~~~~~~~~

It was raining hard the next time Tom came up. His jacket was soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked sheepish and slightly out of breath.

"I was at the shop," he said, "and I thought, if you needed anything. Anything at all."

She raised an eyebrow. "Anything?"

He laughed, but didn't look away. "Yes."

Emily took his jacket, hung it by the door. He stood there, damp and rumpled, waiting. She liked the sight of him like that, unguarded and wanting to be useful.

"I do need something, actually," she said, turning toward the kitchen. "Come here."

He followed without question.

She pointed at the floor beside her open cupboard. "I've been meaning to mop under there for days. I can't reach without shifting it all. My back's knackered."

He didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees and started pulling out tins, a bag of flour, half empty bottles of vinegar and oils.

She handed him a cloth and filled a basin, then stood watching as he scrubbed. He worked in silence, carefully, thoroughly. The sight of his shoulders moving under his thin jumper, the curve of his back as he bent and reached, it stirred something low and thick in her again.

When he sat back on his heels, hands dripping, she handed him a tea towel but didn't move.

"You like doing things for me," she said. Not a question.

He nodded, eyes flicking up to hers.

"Because I make you feel useful? Or because I make you feel wanted?"

His breath caught, sharp and unguarded. A flush crept up his neck.

"Both," he said.

She stepped closer. Her foot brushed his knee.

"Good."

She bent a little, not dramatically, just enough to touch his chin, guiding his face up to hers with two fingers. His eyes found hers, wide and open, holding that tentative sort of hope she was coming to recognise.

"This isn't casual for me," she said softly. "When I ask for something, it's because I mean it. Because I want you to be the one who gives it."

His lips parted. "I want to be that person," he said, barely more than breath.

She let her fingers fall away and straightened up, not pulling back far.

"Dry your hands," she said gently. "Time for tea."

~~~~~~~~

They sat on the sofa, the sound of rain a soft murmur against the windows. The lights were low, her tea untouched, his nearly gone. Neither of them had said much while the tea cooled, but the air was thick with the memory of that night. The night they couldn't stop thinking about.

Emily shifted slightly, folding one leg beneath her, angling toward him. He mirrored her without thinking, that small movement bringing them closer, closing the space that still hummed with everything they hadn't yet said aloud.

"I've been thinking about you," she said softly, her eyes on his. "About us. About the other night."

Tom's breath caught.

"I can't stop remembering the way you felt," she continued, her voice low, sure. "How you touched me. The way you filled me. I want it again."

His cheeks flushed. He swallowed hard. "Me too," he said. "I've been thinking about it constantly. About you."

She reached for his hand, their fingers sliding together easily, like they remembered each other. She brought it to her thigh, held it there. She leaned in, brushed her lips just once against his.

"I want you tonight," she whispered. "Just as much."

His hand gripped her thigh tighter. "Emily..."

She kissed him again, deeper now, open-mouthed, wet and deliberate. He met her with a soft moan, his other hand rising to her waist, holding her like he was still asking permission. She gave it, right there in the way her body moved against his, the way her tongue met his, hungry but controlled.

He reached for the hem of her rumpled dress, tentative, and she caught his wrist.

"No," she said, gently. "Not yet. Just feel me. For now."

He nodded, eyes fluttering shut as she rocked her hips against him. Slow. Measured. Every movement hers to give. She pulled back, just enough to catch her breath.

"We're not rushing," she murmured. "But I want you. I want that again. Every bit of it."

Tom nodded, his voice caught in his throat. "God, yes. I haven't stopped thinking about it, about you. The way you felt. The way we felt together. I want it all. As much as you'll give me."

She kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat.

"Good," she said, already rising to straddle him. "Because I haven't stopped thinking about the way you sounded when I made you come."

His breath hitched.

"And I want to hear it again."

His hands were on her now, but barely, resting on her hips like he didn't trust himself to grip too hard. His thumbs stroked over the curve of her waist, reverent, restrained.

She smiled against his lips, murmured, "That's it...."

He nodded, barely breathing, and let her guide the moment.

She straddled his lap, slow and deliberate, and the little noise he made, half gasp, half prayer, told her everything. She could feel the shape of him beneath her, firm and unashamed. His head dropped back against the cushions as if he couldn't believe what was happening.

Emily trailed her lips down his neck, over his collarbone, the fabric of his shirt damp beneath her mouth. He was burning up. She slid her hand up under his top and splayed her fingers across his bare chest, feeling the shiver ripple through him. He was leaner than he looked, but soft in the right places, made to be touched. She took her time.

He whimpered, quiet and needy. She covered his mouth with hers again, kissed him deeper this time, let him taste the full weight of her want.

She rolled her hips against him in a slow, deliberate rhythm, feeling the heat of him hard beneath his jeans, the way he twitched with every shift of her weight. A strangled moan broke from his throat. He was trying to hold it in, she could tell, jaw clenched, breath staggered. That restraint thrilled her. The tension. The way he gave her everything without a word.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

"Bedroom," she said.

He nodded, breathless. "Yeah... fuck, yeah."

She stood, took his hand, and tugged him after her without ceremony. The flat was dim, but the hallway felt too bright. She didn't care. Didn't look behind her to check if he hesitated. He didn't.

In the bedroom, she turned and pushed him gently back onto the edge of the bed. His legs hit the mattress and he dropped down with a soft grunt, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

She stepped between his knees, bent low, and undid the buttons of his shirt one by one. She peeled it off his shoulders and let it fall behind him. He was warm under her hands, skin flushed, the kind of lean body that didn't try to be impressive and was all the more beautiful for it.

She kissed his throat, scraped her teeth lightly along his collarbone, then reached down and undid his belt.

"Lift," she said simply, and he did, hips rising so she could drag his jeans and boxers down in one smooth pull.

Without ceremony, she slipped her knickers down and let them fall to the floor. Her dress was soft and loose and she gathered the hem in both hands and hitched it up over her hips as she climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs. She settled there slowly, deliberately, the heat of her thighs heavy against his hips.

She reached down and wrapped her fingers around him, stroking once, slow, deliberate. Her thumb circled the head, collecting the slick already there.

"Mmm," she murmured, smiling. "You're a lot."

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on hers, barely breathing.

"That's good," she added, guiding him between her folds, letting him feel how wet she already was. She rocked once, not taking him in, just dragging him along her, teasing, deliberate. "Because up here..." she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear, "I get to decide how much of you I take. How deep. How slow."

He let out a broken moan, fingers flexing at her hips.

"Jesus, Em..."

She kissed the side of his throat, her voice warm and wicked. "You just lie back. I'll handle the rest."

Emily held him steady in one hand, her other braced against his chest. She hovered just above him, her breath shallow, thighs trembling slightly with the tension. The thick head of his cock pressed against her, slick and insistent, the heat of him sharp against her opening.

She rolled her hips forward, guiding him to her entrance, and paused before settling herself on him.

"Uhhh," she breathed, wordlessly

He groaned, his head dropping back into the pillows, hands fisting the sheets.

She closed her eyes and took more of him, steady and deliberate, letting her body open around him. The drag of him inside her was slow, thick, maddening. She had to move carefully, letting her weight do the work, controlling the angle, the depth, each breath a steadying rhythm.

"Fuck...," she whispered, almost to herself. "Just like that... that's it..."

Her thighs flexed as she sank the last inch down. Her hips met his, skin to skin, and they both froze there, panting, trembling.

She leaned forward, hands on his chest, her hair falling loose around her face.

"Don't move," she said, breathless. "Let me... get used to it."

He nodded, eyes screwed shut, jaw tight.

She rocked once, just slightly, feeling the way he stretched her from the inside. A moan slipped from her throat, unguarded.

"Tom," she murmured. "You're fucking perfect like this."

She set the pace from the start, slow, deep rolls of her hips, drawing herself nearly off him before sliding back down. He moaned with each thrust, soft curses spilling from his mouth like he couldn't help it.

"Fuck..." he whispered. "What you're doing to me... I can't even think..."

She leaned over him, palms flat on his chest, using the leverage to grind deeper, harder. "You'll stay with me, won't you?" she said, her voice a whisper at his ear.

"Yes... yes, fuck, please..."

She bit his earlobe, then kissed it better. Her rhythm stayed steady, her body knowing exactly what she needed, and what he could take.

It didn't take long before she felt herself close to the edge. He had to be too. She could feel it in the way he trembled, the tension in his thighs, the way his fingers flexed uselessly against her back like he wanted to hold on but couldn't find where.

"Don't hold it," she murmured, lips against his cheek. "Let it happen."

"Oh god... Em..."

She rode him through it, slow and deep as he spilled into her with a sharp cry. The way he came, body arching, mouth open, pushed her over too. She pressed down hard, grinding as she came with a gasp, hips twitching, hands fisting in the sheets either side of him.

She stayed there, straddling him, both of them shivering slightly, their breath tangled.

Her voice was low, firm, deliciously close to his ear. "You're mine now, Tom. Say it."

He did. Whispered it like a vow. "I'm yours."

Her mouth found his again, and this time there was no pause. Just heat, and skin, and the glorious, unshakable knowledge that she was wanted exactly as she was and this beautiful soul was all hers.

~~~~~~~~

She woke slowly, blinking against the early light that spilled pale and steady through the curtains. The air in the room was still, muffled, as if holding its breath. She felt the ache first, not pain, but that sweet, humming soreness in her thighs and hips that told her the night had been real.

For a moment she lay there, half on her side, the duvet tangled around her legs. She could hear him breathing. That slow, steady rhythm of someone deep in sleep.

She turned her head.

Tom was curled toward her, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other resting, gently, unconsciously, against her hip. His face was soft in sleep.

He hadn't tried to take anything. Hadn't demanded or reached beyond what she'd offered. He'd simply given himself over, wholly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She studied him for a while. The curve of his back beneath the sheet. The faint freckles along his shoulder. Her fingers drifted to his hair, brushing a strand from his forehead. He didn't stir. She let her hand rest there, just for a moment, taking him in.

She remembered the rest of their night. Her body thrummed gently, every muscle a reminder of how thoroughly he'd taken her once again. Not rushed. Not frantic. Thorough.

She smiled into the pillow, eyes still closed, lips parted against the cotton. Her thighs still ached from the angle he'd taken her in: knees wide, back arched, hands braced flat on the mattress while he moved behind her, deep and deliberate, his breath hot against her shoulder. Every stroke had landed right where she needed it, thick and slow and purposeful, like he was savouring every inch.

There'd been a moment, just before she came, when she'd nearly said it. She'd felt the words rise in her throat with the heat: I love this. I love being taken like this. Letting you fill me, fuck me, under my rules. On my terms. Bent over and still in control.

It made her feel powerful. Not in spite of giving herself to him like that, but because of it. Every motion was hers to allow. Every sound he made, every stuttered breath as he tried to hold back, belonged to her.

She hadn't said it aloud. Not yet. She could feel it building already, that old voice, that scratch of doubt. Too much of you, Em. You'll scare him off. You always do.

But he hadn't run. Not when afterwards that night she'd taken his wrists and held them to the mattress. Not when she'd looked down at him, naked body slick with sweat, while he lay open and panting beneath her. Not even when she'd taken her kisses from his lips and watched his whole body tremble in response.

He'd stayed. He'd given.

She slid out of bed, careful not to wake him. Found her dressing gown and pulled it around herself. The flat was cold in the mornings, she'd need to sort proper curtains soon, but she liked it that way. The chill made the kettle feel earned.

When she turned to make tea, she paused. On the back of the kitchen chair, his hoodie was draped neatly where he'd left it. She stepped closer, ran her fingers over the soft grey cotton. Lifted it to her face.

It smelled like him.

She held it there for a long moment.

Then she made the tea.

Tom stirred just as she was setting the mugs on the low table. He blinked, slow and bleary, then pushed himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Morning," she said, settling beside him on the bed.

He looked at her for a moment before replying. Just looked. As if trying to be sure she was still real.

"Hi," he said at last, voice rough. "Am I dreaming this bit?"

"No," she said, handing him a mug. "This bit's real."

He took it carefully, holding it in both hands like something fragile.

"I wasn't sure," he said, after a long sip. "I mean, I hoped, but..."

"But you thought I'd be different in the daylight."

"Maybe."

Emily curled her feet beneath her, watching him. "Do I feel different to you now?"

He looked up. "No. Just... more you. If that makes sense."

She nodded, then let the quiet stretch a little. The tea warmed her hands, and she could feel her own body settling, grounding itself again.

"You were good," she said. "Last night."

His cheeks coloured, but he didn't look away. "I didn't know what I was doing."

"That's alright," she said. "You listened. You gave. That's what I need."

He nodded, quickly. "I want to keep doing that. Whatever you need."

There was something in the way he said it that stirred a deep, quiet satisfaction in her chest.

"I'm not sure where this is going yet," she said. "I haven't done... this. Not like this."

"Me neither."

"But I liked having you," she went on, carefully. "I liked how you let me take you. And I liked how much you wanted it."

His fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

She kissed his shoulder. "I owe you a thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

She gave him a long, pointed look. "For the way you rearranged my spine last night."

Tom flushed instantly, and she loved that, how quickly she could fluster him.

He chuckled, ducking his head. "I aim to please."

"Well, you did," she said, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "Quite thoroughly."

She sipped her tea, then leaned closer, brushing her lips just beneath his ear.

"And I was thinking..." she murmured, "if you're free later... I wouldn't mind another round. Same arrangement. Maybe slower. Or maybe not."

Tom looked at her then, eyes gone soft and wide, and set his own mug down without taking a sip.

"Later," he said. "Definitely."

She grinned, kissed the corner of his mouth, then settled back against the pillows.

"Good. Now rest for a bit, I need you at full strength for later."

He laughed, breath warm on her neck, and rested his head against her shoulder. They lay there in the quiet hum of morning, bodies warm, tea forgotten.

~~~~~~~~

The day passed in quiet, domestic rhythms. Emails, phone calls, laundry thrown in the machine, a hunt for a missing shirt button. The kettle boiled twice more than it needed to.

Late morning, she caught him staring while she reached for a mug on the top shelf, jumper riding up just enough to show the slope of her lower back. He didn't speak, didn't make a sound, but when she turned, he was looking at her like he wanted to drop everything in his hands and take her against the counter. She didn't acknowledge it. Just raised an eyebrow and said, "Milk in the fridge's about to turn, don't touch it," and walked away.

He disappeared around noon to replenish the milk and came back with her favourite chocolate and a punnet of raspberries she hadn't asked for. She didn't mention it, just took the chocolate, tucked it into the cupboard with a faint smile, and brushed his arm as she passed.

He took opportunities to make contact. Once just as she bent to load the dishwasher, his palm lingering at the small of her back. Once again as he reached around her for the washing up liquid, knuckles grazing the underside of her breast. Each time it seemed accidental, but not quite.

In the mid-afternoon lull, she sprawled on the floor to sort through a folder of old prints, bare legs stretched long across the rug. He lay beside her, chin on his hand, and watched her work in silence. At one point he reached over to move a loose curl from her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear. His fingertips lingered at her temple. She didn't speak, just looked at him, let the moment sit.

Later, as she sat at the table tapping out a final email, he came up behind her, leaned down, and kissed the top of her spine through the neck of her jumper. Lips against fabric and skin, warm and unhurried. She closed her eyes and shivered just for a second.

By early evening the flat was quiet. Calm. The breeze stirred through the cracked windows, warm golden light slanting along the skirting boards, stretching across the rug like something from a film.

She was curled on the sofa in her softest jumper, legs tucked beneath her, a book forgotten in her lap. Her fingers moved absently across the edge of the page. Her body was warm, loose, keyed up with the kind of tension that sat just below the skin.

Tom stood in the doorway with a mug in his hand, eyes on her. He looked at her like he knew what she was waiting for.

She didn't say anything. Just closed the book, held his gaze, and rose to meet him.

They didn't speak as she took his hand and walked him down the short hallway. Her bedroom was only a few steps away, but it felt like crossing a threshold.

The light in the room was soft, drawn curtains and the amber glow of a single lamp. She turned to him, her hand already at his waistband.

She knelt between his thighs, stroking him slowly, deliberately, watching the way his chest rose and fell. He was already hard, heavy in her hand, his tip flushed dark and glistening. She loved the weight of him, the stretch of her fingers as they curled around his length.

"You don't have to..." he said, voice rough, eyes dark and soft all at once.

She didn't answer with words. Just leaned forward and brushed her lips along the tip, slow and teasing. He groaned, low and helpless, hips twitching. She opened her mouth and took him in, inch by slow inch, her tongue circling him, coaxing, testing what she could manage.

He was almost too much for her mouth, but that was half the point. The struggle turned her on. Made her want it more. She wanted to feel him against the back of her throat, needed the fullness, the ache of it.

He let out a sharp breath, hand threading into her hair, not pulling, just holding.

"Fuck, Em," he whispered. "That's... god, that's incredible."

She moaned around him, the sound vibrating along his shaft, her lips slick and stretched wide. She pulled back slowly, her mouth wet and swollen, then sucked him in again, deeper this time. He was panting now, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress, the other still buried in her hair.

"Don't... I'm gonna..." he started, voice strained.

She pulled off with a pop and looked up at him, smirking, breathless. "Not like that," she said. "Not yet."

He looked wrecked already, but nodded, eyes heavy. "Okay. Fuck. Yeah."

She stood, her knees unsteady, and climbed onto the bed. Crawled forward until she was on all fours in the centre, back arched, thighs parted. She looked over her shoulder at him.

She knew what he'd see: her hips full, her bottom round and pale, framed by the sway of her back and the stretch of her thighs.

"Come here," she said, her voice like velvet, "I want the same as last night... but slower."

Tom moved behind her, palms smoothing along her hips, reverent. She could feel the heat of him as he knelt between her legs, his cock brushing against her slick centre. He held her there for a moment, steadying himself.

"You good?" he asked, voice low. "Like this?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Just... slow. I want to feel all of it."

He pressed in carefully, one hand guiding himself, the other on her back, grounding her. His entry made her gasp, sharp and delicious, her body clenching instinctively as he eased forward, inch by inch, filling her, pushing deep.

"Fuck... Emily..."

"I've got you," she murmured. "Just go slow. That's it."

He bottomed out with a groan, his hips flush to her backside, the length of him buried inside her. She dropped her head to the pillow, mouth open, breath shallow.

"Bloody hell," she said, voice thick. "You're making a mess of me..."

Tom let out a soft moan, his hands firm at her waist.

"Tell me if you need me to do anything differently."

"I will," she said. "Don't stop. Just keep moving like that."

He began to thrust, slow and deep, his pace steady. No rush. Just the long drag of him sliding out and the aching fullness of him pressing back in. She reached between her thighs, fingers slipping over her clit, circling in time with his rhythm. The sensation was immediate, hot and electric.

"You okay?" he asked again, voice strained.

"Perfect," she gasped. "Just like that."

The bed creaked softly beneath them, the room thick with heat and breath and the quiet, desperate sounds of pleasure. She could hear him moan, low and honest, as she clenched around him, her fingers working faster now, her body slick and trembling.

"Faster?" he asked.

She shook her head, panting. "No. Keep it slow. I want to feel every bit of you."

He swore under his breath, incomplete words, hips grinding into her in slow, relentless strokes.

"Too much... fuck... close..."

She moaned in reply, her body coiling tighter, pressure building. Her climax was close, riding the edge, and she kept her fingers moving, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts, wanting all of him, the stretch, the weight, the steady rhythm of his body inside hers.

And when it came, it washed through her in waves, her thighs shaking, her voice breaking into a breathless moan as she clenched hard around him.

He wasn't far behind. He gasped, then groaned her name, hips stuttering as he spilled into her, hands gripping her waist as if she might vanish.

They stayed like that for a moment, frozen, still connected, chests heaving. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, still inside her, breath hot and shaky.

She smiled into the pillow again, blissfully spent, her body humming.

"You wreck me," he whispered.

She looked back at him, half-laughing. "Good."

~~~~~~~~

They slipped into a rhythm over the following week, a quiet routine that neither of them named. He stayed often, never assuming, never outstaying, she was glad to have him there. Some nights were all hands and heat. One night, just dinner and talking on the sofa until dawn. Little things shifted, his toiletries in the bathroom, the cereal he liked in the cupboard. A book he'd picked from her collection took up residence on the table by the lamp. He was still present even when he wasn't there.

The morning was slow and grey. Rain against the window, the soft hiss of tyres on wet roads outside. Somewhere, perhaps in the shop below, a radio played oldies muffled through the floorboards.

Emily stood at the kitchen counter in her dressing gown, one hand curled around a mug of strong tea, the other resting on her hip. The mug was warm, but her body was warmer. Not just from sleep, or him, still drowsing in bed, but from something deeper.

She felt settled. There was a weight to her today, and she liked it.

Her thighs ached faintly. So did her hips. Her neck held the ghost of a kiss. Her chest carried the memory of his mouth, how he lingered there, how she let him. Let him touch, and taste, and worship, not because she needed reassurance, but because it pleased her to be wanted like that.

She smiled into her tea.

He hadn't fought her rhythm last night. Hadn't tried to wrestle control or turn it into something else. He'd held her hips like they were precious, followed her pace until they were both undone, and then still stayed inside her after, like he couldn't bear the distance.

She liked how full she'd felt. How long he kept her there.

She closed her eyes briefly, the smile widening.

Behind her, she heard a soft rustle. The telltale creak of the bedroom floorboard by the door. Bare feet on linoleum. Then his arms sliding around her from behind, warm and lazy.

"You're humming," he murmured, voice still half-asleep.

"Am I?"

"Mmhmm."

She didn't stop.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, nosed into her neck. Still in yesterday's boxers, sleep-mussed and smiling.

She leaned back into him, letting his arms tighten.

"I'm in a very good mood," she said, sipping again.

"I could tell."

She turned just enough to kiss him on the cheek.

"I'm thinking we keep it going."

He raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

She smirked and patted his backside. "Yes. You'll need to keep up. I've decided I'm in my prime and I can't get enough of you."

By late morning, he'd gone to run errands, promising to text her later. Emily dressed slowly, still feeling the echo of his mouth on her skin, the now ever present ache between her thighs a welcome reminder of the night before.

She wasn't in a rush. Just needed to pop out for a couple of AA batteries for the flashgun that had died mid-shoot and, without them, she'd be cursing herself the next time a client wanted backlit anything. She told herself she'd nip into the chemist, in and out, but then she passed the charity shop and saw the sign in the window:

Clear Out Sale: Everything Must Go (Except the Staff).

She laughed and remembered she still didn't own a proper vase. So she stepped inside.

The bell above the door gave a jingle that seemed much louder than it should've.

It took all of three seconds for them to spot her.

"Oh, hello there," said the taller of the two, standing behind the till. Slim, wiry, glasses on a chain. "You must be Emily."

Emily froze. "Er... yes. That's me."

The other one, a stockier woman with a soft cardigan and mischievous eyes, beamed. "Well well well. You do exist."

"Don't be daft," the tall one said, elbowing her gently. "Course she does. She's been keeping our Tom out of trouble."

Emily gave a tight smile, gripping the strap of her bag. "Sorry, I didn't mean to... he's mentioned me, then?"

"Oh love," the stocky one said, stepping out from behind the bric-a-brac shelf, "we've seen him sneaking upstairs with that daft grin on his face so many times we've stopped counting."

"He doesn't even try to hide it anymore," added the other. "Just disappears mid-shift with some excuse about tidying up stock. Comes back all flushed and sheepish."

Emily's cheeks burned. "Right. Well. That sounds... accurate."

They both laughed. Genuine, not cruel.

"I'm Sheila," said the taller one, holding out a hand. "And this menace is June."

June gave a little curtsy. "We've been dying to meet you."

Emily shook both hands, still slightly stunned.

"You're not what we expected," June added, giving her an approving once-over. "You're better."

Emily blinked. "Thank you?"

June leaned in a little. "We like you, love. He's happy. We've not seen him like this... ever, really."

"And don't worry," said Sheila. "We're old, not blind. We know a lucky man when we see one."

Emily laughed then, really laughed. The knot in her chest loosened in a way she hadn't realised it needed to.

She glanced toward the shelf of random crockery. "Do you have any vases?"

"Down there on the shelf," June said with a wink. "Right next to the candle holders. And if you see Tom later, tell him to stop hiding you. We'd love a proper chat."

Emily smiled. "I think I'd like that."

She waited until she and Tom were curled on the sofa that evening, his head on her thigh, her fingers idly stroking his hair.

"I met Sheila and June today."

His head jerked up slightly. "You what?"

"I popped into the shop. They recognised me straight away. Gave me a full report on your sneaky disappearances and flushed cheeks."

Tom groaned and dropped his face back into her leg. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," she said, smirking. "Turns out you're not as subtle as you think."

"I didn't think I was subtle. I just thought they'd spare me the commentary."

"They live for the commentary."

He peeked up at her. "Were they awful?"

"No," she said, softer now. "They were lovely. Bit cheeky. Said I wasn't what they expected. Said I was better."

Tom blinked. "They're right."

Emily ran her fingers slowly across his temple. "They said you're happy. That they've never seen you like this before."

He went still.

She didn't push. Just let her hand rest on his shoulder, light and steady.

"I am," he said quietly, after a long pause. "Happy, I mean."

She waited.

He shifted, sat up a little so they were eye to eye. Something in his posture changed, less playful now, more exposed.

"I never really... had a person before," he said. "Not like this. I dated. But I never felt safe."

Emily tilted her head.

Tom looked down at his hands. "I've always been the one who wanted too much. Too soft, too eager. I tried to be normal. Tried to be the one who decides. But it always felt like I was pretending."

She didn't speak. Just listened.

"And then with you... it was like my body already knew. That first day, carrying your boxes. You didn't flirt or play coy or dismiss me. You just were. And I felt myself settle."

He looked up again.

"You made space for me to be what I really am. And I didn't know how much I needed that until it happened."

Emily swallowed, the warmth in her chest rising like a tide.

"Thank you," he said. "For not laughing at me. For taking me seriously."

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and firm.

"I see you," she said.

And she meant it.

Later, the flat was dark but warm, lit only by the faint orange spill from the streetlamp outside.

Tom had dozed off against her shoulder not long after their talk. Not fully asleep, his breathing was too uneven, his fingers still curled loosely around the hem of her dress like he was afraid she'd drift away if he let go.

Emily stayed still, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other resting lightly on his back. He was curled in, tucked close, chest against hers, legs tangled with hers under the blanket.

She could feel his weight, the solid press of him, and something about it grounded her more deeply than any kiss or command ever had.

He needed this. Not the sex, but this. Her warmth. Her silence. Her heartbeat beneath his ear.

She could feel the edge of his vulnerability still lingering. That thread of emotion he'd let slip earlier, raw and shy. It humbled her, more than anything. Not because he was weak, but because he was honest. Willing to offer that part of himself without shame.

She shifted slightly and pulled the blanket higher around them. Pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

"I've got you," she whispered, not expecting a reply.

But he murmured something back, barely audible.

"What was that?" she asked gently.

He turned his face toward her neck, his breath warm against her skin.

"You're the first person I've ever wanted to belong to forever," he said.

And that was it. No drama. No declarations.

Just truth, soft and steady in the dark.

She held him tighter, her cheek resting on his hair, and closed her eyes.

For the first time in years, she didn't feel like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She just was. With him. And it was enough.

~~~~~~~~

The knock came just as Emily was finishing her coffee. She opened the door barefoot, mug still in hand, hair pinned up.

Tom stood there, hands in his pockets, wearing that faint, boyish grin like he wasn't entirely sure she'd open.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," she echoed, already smiling.

He stepped in without asking, leaned in, and kissed her softly, just once, warm and unhurried. She tasted toothpaste and something sweet beneath it. When he pulled back, he looked at her like he was memorising her face.

"You've got a full day, yeah?" he asked.

She nodded. "Three shoots back to back. One of them's toddlers though so I'm expecting chaos."

"Right." He nodded once, like he'd already made the decision. "Then tonight I'm handling everything. Dinner, supper, whatever you need. You won't lift a finger."

Emily arched an eyebrow. "You're cooking?"

"I'm assembling. There may be packets involved."

She laughed. "Good. I don't want to find you weeping over an aubergine."

"No weeping," he said, stepping back toward the door. "Just you, feet up, letting me fuss."

She tilted her head. "You like fussing."

He leaned in again, kissed her cheek. "Only over you."

She watched him go, her smile lingering long after the door closed.

She hadn't asked for this. But God, she wanted it.

He returned that evening just after seven, arms full, Sainsbury's bag tucked against his side, bottle of wine under his arm, a smaller clinking bag dangling from his wrist. He was grinning before she even opened the door.

"Prepared," he said, stepping inside. "Thought I'd better show up properly if I was going to make good on my promise."

Emily took the bottle from him, raised an eyebrow at the label. "Italian. You're serious."

"Fresh pasta," he said, holding up the paper bag. "Pappardelle. Salad. Parmesan, not in a tub. And..." He fished into the smaller bag and held up a tub of gelato with a flourish.

She looked at him, half amused, half something else she didn't quite want to name.

"You really didn't have to..."

"I know," he said, already heading into the kitchen. "That's why I did."

She let him. It was strange, watching someone move around her space like they belonged there. He opened drawers without asking, fumbled for the colander, swore softly when the salad tongs fell out of a cupboard and clattered to the floor. But he didn't ask for help. Just bustled and stirred and plated up like it mattered.

And when they ate, on proper plates, legs tangled under the little table, she had to admit: it was excellent. Rich, simple and unfussy. The wine was good, too. Warm and smooth and just enough to loosen the edges of the day.

Later, they curled on the sofa, shoes off, the gelato half-melted in its tub on the table. Emily lay with her head in his lap, his fingers weaving lazily through her hair.

"This okay?" he asked.

"Mm," she said. "Feels good."

She let him stroke her hair, while she lay, hand placed lightly on his thigh.

"You know," he said at last, "I used to think I had a type."

She glanced up at him. "Let me guess. Petite, gym membership, all that?"

He shook his head. "No. I just thought I wanted what everyone said I should. Whatever was supposed to be 'desirable.'"

"Right," she said, dryly. "And then you met the old lady upstairs."

"Stop that." His voice was soft, but firm.

He shifted, leaning over her so he could see her properly.

"I need to say something," he said. "Will you let me?"

She nodded, a little wary.

"I think you're beautiful," he said. "Not just... appealing, not just 'sexy in your own way.' I mean beautiful. In a way that makes my chest ache sometimes."

She opened her mouth to deflect, but he pressed a finger lightly to her lips.

"No. Let me say it."

She stayed quiet.

"I love how soft you are. Your tummy, your thighs, the way your hips feel under my hands. I love the weight of you when you're on top of me. I want that. I crave it."

His hand drifted lower, resting gently on her side.

"And your backside..." He grinned slightly, sheepish but sincere. "It's unreal. I could spend hours just kissing it."

That made her laugh, but there was a tremble in it. She looked at him, really looked. He wasn't flattering her. He wasn't trying to earn anything. He was just telling the truth.

"It's not just the physical," he went on. "It's how you carry it. Like you haven't realised yet what it does to people. That kind of unknowing grace, it knocks the wind out of me."

Emily stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, blinking.

Then she pulled the blanket tighter around them both and kissed his hand.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I didn't know how much I needed to hear that."

"I'll keep saying it," he said, settling against her again. "Every day, if you'll let me."

A half hour passed unspoken, undisturbed. A kind of peace neither of them named, but both felt.

"You look like you're about to fall asleep," he said, voice low.

"I might," she murmured, eyes closed. "Wine, pasta, and a long week. Fatal combination."

He brushed a hand over her arm, his fingers gentle. "Come on. Let's get you into the shower."

She opened one eye. "Oh yeah?"

He nodded. "Yes. I'll help."

She hesitated, but only for a second. Then gave him a small, quiet nod.

The bathroom was warm and close with steam by the time he coaxed her in, her dress dropped over the door, water running hot down their backs. Tom reached for the soap, rubbed it into a soft lather, and began to wash her, slow, careful strokes down her arms, across her shoulders, along her back. She closed her eyes and let him.

His hands moved through her hair next, slow and methodical, spreading shampoo through the strands with care. She laughed once, softly, when he tried to keep the suds out of her eyes and failed.

"You're very diligent," she murmured.

"I want to do this right," he said, rinsing her off, then kissing her forehead.

Her body responded without needing to be asked. The heat of the water, the heat of him. It stirred something under her skin, not urgent but unmistakable. She felt his arousal as he stepped behind her, pressed to her lightly, but he didn't push. Just let her feel it, nothing more.

They dried off slowly. No rush. Just shared warmth and small touches. He took his time with the towel, blotting her skin instead of rubbing, letting her lean into him as he worked his way down her legs.

When she was dry and warm again, standing in the soft light of the hallway, he held her gaze and said, "Come to bed."

She searched his face, and what she saw there steadied her. No demand, no expectation. Just care. Just want.

He offered his hand, and she took it. Let him lead her, not out of passivity, but permission.

The bedroom was dim, golden light pooling at the edges, softening the walls, casting everything in warmth. Emily let the towel slip from her shoulders, her skin still damp from the shower, the cool air raising goosebumps along her arms. Tom reached for her hand, kissed her knuckles, then guided her to the bed.

"Lie back," he said, quietly. "Let me look after you."

She did. The sheets were cool against her back, her hair fanned across the pillow. He knelt beside her, eyes never leaving her face as he brushed a hand along her collarbone, down the slope of her shoulder, fingers feather-light.

His touch was slow. Intentional. Reverent.

He leaned in and kissed the hollow of her throat, then lower, down the line of her sternum, each press of his mouth unhurried. When he reached her breasts, he took his time.

He cupped one breast in his palm, lifted it slightly, and kissed the underside first. Just a brush of lips, warm and patient. Then the side. Then, finally, her nipple, circling it with his tongue, then drawing it gently into his mouth. She gasped, one hand flying to his hair.

"Tom..."

He hummed against her, then moved to the other, giving it the same attention, his hands and mouth moving in tandem, tongue flicking, sucking lightly, then soothing with warm kisses.

The sensation pulled at something deep in her belly. She felt the slow rise of arousal, making her shift her hips against the sheet. Her breath was shorter now, her skin flushed, heat spreading across her chest and down through her thighs.

He kissed his way lower, hands never leaving her body, fingers trailing behind his mouth, down her ribs, over the gentle curve of her stomach. He paused to mouth along the crease of her hip, her skin there sensitive, tender. She trembled, thighs parting slightly without thinking.

Her body was wet now, aching. She could feel the slick heat between her legs growing with every breath, every stroke of his mouth.

He looked up at her, one hand resting on her thigh.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

She nodded, lips parted. "Yes. I... just... don't stop."

He kissed her inner thigh, just once. Then again, higher.

Then he shifted, hands spreading gently along her hips, and knelt fully between her legs.

Still patient, as if he had all the time in the world, and every intention of giving it to her.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, higher this time. Emily breathed in slowly, her fingers threading into his damp hair as he lowered himself between her legs. She was already slick and aching, her skin humming with anticipation.

He started tentatively. A warm, eager lick over her cleft, too broad at first, too quick. Then another, more focused. She bit her lip, her hips twitching slightly under him.

Tom was trying. She could feel it in the way he moved, uncertain, yes, but full of intention. He wanted to please her. Wanted her to know she was being adored. That mattered more than precision.

"Slower," she murmured, gently rocking her hips forward. Her voice was soft, guiding. "Not so fast."

He adjusted, tongue flattening out, following her rhythm.

She let out a breath. Better.

"Right there," she said, fingers tightening a little in his hair. "Yes. Like that. Keep it steady."

He groaned softly against her, the sound almost bashful, and she smiled, her body beginning to respond in earnest. He circled her clit now, too light one moment, too firm the next, but she stayed with him, guiding his pressure with soft murmurs and careful touches.

"Good," she whispered. "That's good, darling."

Her thighs trembled around his head as the sensation built, a warm pulse rising, stretching. He was kissing her now between strokes, tongue moving slower, more deliberate. She brought her left leg over his shoulder to pull him ever deeper.

Every so often he glanced up, checking her face, her breath, her hands. Checking he was doing it right. That he was making her feel good.

And he was. God, he was.

"Yes, Tom," she said, voice thick now, her hips pressing up into his mouth. "Sweet darling. Just like that. Don't stop."

He moaned in reply, burying himself deeper into her, letting her rock against his face as she climbed, breath hitching, body tightening around the edge.

When she came, it broke over her in a sudden rush. Hot and shaking, sharp around the edges. Her thighs clenched around his head, her back arching off the bed, mouth open in a ragged cry.

She didn't pull away straight away. Just lay there, one hand still resting in his hair, her body pulsing with aftershocks, his lips matching them with tiny kisses.

When she finally caught her breath, she tugged him up gently, guiding him over her. His mouth was damp, lips flushed, eyes wide and searching.

"You tried so hard," she murmured, stroking his cheek. "My darling. You wanted to give me that, and you did."

He swallowed, a little breathless. "You're amazing."

She smiled, tugged him closer so his weight settled against her.

"I need to feel you now," she whispered into his ear. "Inside me. I want all of you."

He nodded, shifting between her thighs as she opened to him again.

And this time, it was her turn to let him know just how much she wanted him.

Tom hovered above her, his weight supported on trembling forearms, his breath warm against her cheek. Emily led him down between her thighs, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the other sliding low to guide him where she needed him.

She felt the head of his cock press against her, broad and hot, slick with her arousal. Her body opened for him easily, still sensitive from the waves of her orgasm. She held her breath as he began to push in, slowly, carefully, her fingers digging lightly into his shoulder.

"Go slow," she whispered. "Let me feel all of it."

He did. Inch by inch, he sank into her, the stretch deep and deliberate. Her breath hitched as he filled her, almost too much, but exactly what she needed. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, until he was all the way inside.

"Oh, fuck..." she breathed, eyes fluttering shut. "I've been aching for this all day. You. Here."

He groaned into her neck, his voice barely a sound. "I never want to be anywhere else."

They stayed like that for a moment, breathing in sync, hearts thudding. She pressed her lips to his jaw, then his cheek, her hands roaming his back, his ribs, anchoring him.

Then he began to move. Slow, deep strokes at first, hips rolling into hers with care. She felt every inch of him, the way her body stretched and clung around him, the delicious friction that made her legs tremble.

"That's it," she whispered. "Take your time. Just like that."

Their bodies found a rhythm, measured and intimate. The kind of sex that didn't rush to the finish, that let every moment bloom. She kept her eyes open, watching the way his face shifted with pleasure, the way his mouth dropped open with each thrust.

"I needed to feel all of you," she said, voice thick. "To feel you undoing me deep inside."

He shuddered, hips stuttering briefly. "Em... fuck... I can't hold back if you say things like that."

She smiled, pulled him closer. "Then don't."

He began to move faster, the pace shifting from reverent to desperate, thighs slapping against hers, his breath ragged in her ear. Her hands gripped his back now, nails digging in, body arching into his.

"Harder," she gasped. "Come on, don't hold back now."

He gave a broken moan and fucked her harder, deeper, his body slamming into hers with each thrust. She could feel herself unraveling, her orgasm building fast, the tension coiling tight in her belly.

"You're mine," she whispered, biting at his jaw. "You're fucking mine."

"Yes, yes, fuck, Em..." he was lost, hips snapping hard and fast, every thrust dragging a cry from her lips.

Her climax hit with a strangled moan, her body clenching hard around him, her nails raking down his back. She sobbed his name, held him tight as he drove through it, pushed her higher, until she was gasping and shaking beneath him.

He came seconds later, buried deep, his whole body convulsing, mouth open in a hoarse shout. He gripped her so tightly it bordered on desperate, hips jerking as he spilled into her, every pulse of release sending a fresh wave of warmth through her.

They collapsed together, breathless and soaked with sweat, still joined.

She wrapped her arms around him, kissed the damp skin of his shoulder, and smiled. Not giddy. Not dazed.

Happy. Completely, undeniably happy.