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fizzyxcustard · 11 months

Text

Just My Imagination.

Masterlist of fan fiction

Fandom: Spooks

Pairings: Lucas North x Original Female Character (Amy Holland)

Warnings: Undercover agents, angst, insecurity, anxiety.

Word count: 5725

Summary: From the imagine: "Imagine that you are on an operation with Lucas North, where you have to use a cover story that you’re in a relationship. Only Lucas plays the part a little too well."

Comments/Notes: Requested by anon. Requested as Lucas x Amy. THANK YOU. You know how much I love writing about Lucas and Amy. This piece was requested to be a romantic comedy, but I’m so sorry to say that it wound up just being angsty again.

I hope you like the fic. As always, like, reblog and comment if you enjoy. If you wish to be added to any of my tag lists, let me know.

Operation Greenacre.

Amy looked back over the folder in front of her, memorising all the information inside. Her name while on this operation was Amanda Reynolds, an office assistant in central London at a family law firm. Recently engaged to boyfriend of two years, Ben Waverley, aka Lucas North, her current operation partner.

Amy and Lucas had been given keys to a one-bedroom flat where they would act out their pretend lives, hoping to gather more inside information from their next door neighbours, a couple who were potentially funding terrorists through their charity.

“Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” Lucas asked, hovering at her desk. “If you don’t feel comfortable then tell Harry and we can stand you down.”

“I don’t want to let anyone down,” Amy sighed, giving him an anxious and embarrassed smile. Next to Jo Portman, Amy was the closest in age to Lucas, so could easily pass off as his fiancée. However, Jo was on another operation.

Lucas pulled a chair across from the desk opposite and sat down next to Amy. “Look, you’ve never done this before, and it’s kind of going against procedure here and taking a risk. You don’t have to say yes just to please Harry or to impress anyone. Your safety and wellbeing comes first.”

“But the only other person is Ros.”

“So?” Lucas asked, raising his eyebrows. “Ros and I have had cover stories before where we’ve been in a relationship. We can easily make it work.”

Amy looked at Lucas and felt the butterflies flap more viciously in her stomach. The man was gorgeous, and in Amy’s mind her being seen as his fiancée was even more inconceivable than Ros taking the place. Ros Myers had the confidence and grace that Amy didn’t. Amy was of short stature, more curvaceous, with short dark hair and what she considered more ‘plain’ features. While Amy had proven herself as a damn good analyst and office based intel officer, her confidence waned when venturing into new situations, or when in the company of Lucas.

Near the end of Lucas’ shift, he tapped on Harry’s door.

Harry Pearce, government renowned intelligence officer and senior lead of Section D, raised his head. “Yes, Lucas. Come in.”

Lucas closed the door behind himself and sat down opposite the middle aged man. “I want to talk to you about Operation Greenacre. I don’t think Amy is ready, Harry. I’ve got a feeling that she’s accepted this to try and prove herself to you.”

“Is this because you’re concerned about having to watch out for her, or a genuine interest in her safety?”

“I can’t believe you’d ask me that question,” Lucas scoffed. “I’m worried for her, not me. She’s not ready for field work. Can we just ask Ros to do it?”

“Lucas, Amy has already agreed to this and your documentation is being processed. I can’t stop this from going ahead, and Ros has, as of this afternoon, been put onto Op Hickory. I trust that you’ll be able to help her; the two of you seem to work well together and there’s something about the way she interacts with you. There’s an ease and a trust I sense.”

“I’m not questioning how we work together. I’ve always got on very well with her.”

Harry saw a very faint blush hit Lucas’ cheeks, which was quite rare for him. Not much seemed to faze him, but this conversation appeared to be bringing out the very first signs that Lucas may have been holding a secret close to his heart.

Amy woke early the next morning and rolled over to see that it was quarter to five. She had only gotten a couple of hours sleep, sporadic through the night. Her mind was ablaze with all the details of her new life she was about to live.

Amanda Reynolds. Thirty one years of age. Born in Manchester. Older brother named Thomas. Fiancee of Ben Waverley. A gorgeous man like him wouldn’t ever be interested in someone like me….

The thoughts had trailed off many times, departing from the facts she had to memorise. All she could think about was how appearing engaged to Lucas would seem so far-fetched. She had even looked upon the engagement ring many times, wishing that it was all for real. What an absolutely stupid dream. This woman that she was pretending to be, Amanda Reynolds, had a better life than she had ever had.

At around half seven, after showering, pacing her flat with podcasts playing in her ears, Amy heard her front door buzzer sound. It couldn’t have been the postman, as he normally left all mail in the boxes in the lobby. Deliveries weren’t usually this early.

Amy clicked the intercom. “Hello?”

“It’s Lucas.”

Just his voice was like a wave of pleasurable electricity. It ran down her spine and made her smile. “I’ll let you in.”

As Amy opened her door, she saw Lucas walking up the hallway. He was dressed in blue jeans and a black shirt, with the top two buttons opened. He held something in his hands.

“I hope you haven’t had breakfast yet, Aim,” he said softly.

“I thought we were meeting at nine, at the flat,” Amy said stupidly.

“I just thought you might like to have a bit of food first and relax a bit.”

Amy let Lucas into her flat, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves begin to descend.

“Malcolm has organised the moving van this morning, so a lot of the stuff should be there when we arrive later,” Amy told Lucas, stepping into the kitchen, with him just behind.

“Come and sit down for a bit and don’t think about the op. Relax and take your mind off it.”

Amy looked down at the brown paper bag on the counter and then back up at Lucas, feeling something in her chest, an ache that she had never quite felt before. Not only was he gorgeous, but kind. He actually saw her, and made her feel like she mattered. Or was this purely to try and help her feel more confident to better the outcome of the op? A method of getting the best out of her.

“Did you manage to get that sketch completed?” Lucas asked, taking a large bite out of a croissant.

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d remember that,” Amy said. Only a few days earlier and Amy had been sketching a photo of her nephew at her desk in work. It was a gift that she wanted to give to her sister for her birthday.

By the time that Amy and Lucas had made it to the flat where they would be spending at least the next couple of weeks, Amy felt a little more at ease. The two of them greeted the moving men.

Every now and again, Amy would catch a glimpse of a shimmer of rainbow colours from the corner of her eye, as the sun caught the diamond on her left hand.

It all felt natural as Amy and Lucas began putting items away after unpacking boxes. However, it all changed, when a tall red-headed woman came to their open door. She tapped on it and stepped over the threshold and into the living room. “Hello?”

“It’s okay,” Lucas whispered to Amy as they remained together in the bedroom, still opening boxes. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then he winked at her, watching as her startled face disappeared out of view.

“Morning,” Amy said, her face beaming at the sight of the redhead. “I’m guessing you’re a neighbour?”

“I am. I’m Pamela from next door, at number five. I heard we were getting new neighbours. It’s been so long since anyone has lived here, and I was starting to wonder if they’d ever find tenants.”

Amy chuckled nervously. “I’m Amanda. My fiancée Ben is still in the bedroom trying to put the bed back together, so he should be out in a bit.”

On cue, just as Amy spoke those last words, Lucas appeared and approached. He curled his arm around Amy’s waist and drew her in against him. “Hi, I’m Ben. I hate moving. It makes me do some DIY which is one of my pet hates.”

As Lucas spoke, Amy was sure that she could feel Lucas’ fingers moving in an almost circular motion against her waist. She could feel heat rising up her body at the sensation of being in such close proximity of him.

“Is that a diamond I see?” Pamela asked, her dark eyes growing bright.

Amy raised her hand to show her new neighbour. “We’ve been engaged about two months now.”

Lucas pulled Amy that tad closer as she spoke, feeling a deep warmth rise upward and fill him. Without even thinking, he placed a kiss on her temple. Her skin was so soft under his lips and he could smell strawberries, no doubt from her shampoo.

“You’ll have to come over for dinner tomorrow,” Pamela offered. “We always enjoy hosting dinners for our neighbours. Ted is ever the showman.”

“That sounds lovely,” Amy said, her voice ever so slightly teetering on the edge of nervousness. She could feel the change in her voice now that Lucas was touching her.

“I’ll let you both get back to it. I’ll see you around no doubt.”

As Pamela disappeared into her front door, Amy immediately pulled from Lucas. She turned away from him and dashed away into the kitchen, where she flicked on the kettle for a drink. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she could feel her legs shaking. For a few seconds, she watched out of the window, focusing on the clouds and took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Lucas asked. “You did well, Aim.”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little flustered, that’s all.”

The rest of the day was fairly lowkey, with Amy and Lucas putting the belongings away, which hopefully wouldn’t be needed for too long. At the briefing, Harry and Lucas had explained that they hoped that the undercover part of the op wouldn’t be any more than two or three weeks. Most of it hinged on Lucas being able to wind his way into Ted Delaney’s trust and gain any hints as to his reasoning and motives for working alongside terrorists.

At around six there was a sharp knock at the door.

Lucas opened the door, only to see Ted Delaney in front of him. Positive ID made from all the documentation that had been gathered prior to the undercover portion of the op going live.

“I’m Ted from next door. Pam told me you’d moved in and that she’d invited you to dinner tomorrow. Thought I’d come over and extend my welcomes to you both.”

Ted Delany was a man who was easily in his mid-fifties. His greying hair was swept back and oiled, and his grey eyes were piercing. His clothing showed that he had money and position: a well-tailored navy suit and shined shoes.

“Would you like a drink with us?” Lucas asked.

“Sure,” Ted said, flashing a broad smile.

Lucas immediately approached the whiskey and vodka bottles that were neatly placed out on a small table next to a large bookcase.

Amy could hear faint chatter as she remained in the bedroom. For a second, she stood with her back to the wall, took a deep breath and then exited.

“Hey, babe,” Lucas said, seeing Amy. ‘Babe’ somehow felt wrong in his mouth, and he hoped that to Delaney the word didn’t come across too alien. “This is Ted from next door.”

“Ted, this is Amanda. The love of my life and wife-to-be.”

I think that may be a bit too much, Lucas. Amy mused.

Amy sat down on the black leather sofa which was opposite a matching armchair, where Ted had perched himself.

Lucas handed the glass of whiskey to Ted and then placed himself down next to Amy. His hand rested on her thigh, again doing that circular motion with his fingers. He looked at Amy, passing her a glance. “Do you want me to get you anything from the kitchen?”

“You’re missing out on the good stuff, love,” Ted said with a hearty chuckle and raised his glass in the air.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Amy replied. “I’ve never been able to hand alcohol particularly well. It just doesn’t sit well with me.”

“I remember when we first met, and she tried to impress me by drinking a couple of pints,” Lucas said. “She’s always tried to impress me when there’s no need to. She’s perfect the way she is.” Lucas, on instinct, squeezed her leg.

Amy felt a rod of red hot head swarm in her head, as if angry wasps were buzzing there. “I always felt I was out of your league, Ben, you know that.”

“Pam was always like that with me, too. Some women might seem like they have confidence, but deep down they don’t, and feel they need to be something they’re not. In fact, they’ve always been the apple of your eye from the very beginning.”

Lucas chuckled. “That’s definitely always been the way with her. She doesn’t see how amazing she is.”

Ted only stayed for approximately twenty minutes, before leaving Amy and Lucas for the night. There was a silence that had grown between them both now, and as Lucas remained in the living room, Amy sat in the kitchen with a mug of tea between her arms, which were resting on the table.

“Aim, what’s wrong?” Lucas asked, finally following her into the kitchen. “You’ve been quiet since Delaney left. Is it making you uncomfortable?”

Lucas looked down at the table to see the engagement ring. It was in the centre of the table, not on Amy’s hand where it should have been for the op.

“I can’t wear it, Lucas,” Amy said softly. “Not when it’s not real. I can’t close the door and still have it on my hand. It’s bad enough having to have you touch me.”

“Amy…”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. We see this op through and then go back to the grid and get on with things.”

Lucas lay on the sofa, while Amy had the bed, and thought on her words. It’s bad enough having you touch me. Was she disgusted by him? That very thought made his jaw clench and an ache rise in his chest. That was why she had dashed from him when Pamela had been at their door; Amy found him disgusting and couldn’t stand him touching her. And that touch had been real, so real in Lucas’ mind. To hold Amy next to him had felt like everything was perfect, and nothing was an act. The kiss on her temple...that was all from Lucas’ heart.

Amy tossed in bed, replaying the events. The way Lucas had touched her, and those words. They seemed to be somehow as though he was telling her, behind a mask of someone else, that…. Of course he wasn’t!

Lucas is good at his job. He’s done this so many times before and played the part well to get what’s needed for the case and then move on. Nothing is different about this operation whatsoever. It’s just my imagination.

Being in a different bed meant that Amy couldn’t quite get comfortable in the bed, and would keep peering out of one eye at the clock on the bedside table. The bed was big, enough space for her to roll around, but it reminded her of how isolated she felt. Cut off. Unwanted.

It was just after four ‘o’ clock and Amy knew she wouldn’t sleep any more that night. It was like the night before, just a couple of hours made up of half hour dozing phases. A dull thump was already starting up behind her eyes. As Amy pulled herself out of bed, she heard the whishing of blood in her ears.

She staggered out of the room and across the living room, heading for the kitchen. There, on the sofa, sprawled out was Lucas. He was on his back, mouth wide open. The patchwork quilt had fallen off him, so Amy tottered over to him, and placed the quilt back over his sleeping form. He twitched as the quilt touched him, let out a loud snore, and then rolled over.

Amy made a cup of herbal tea and sat in the kitchen, her eyes stinging and head thumping. It seemed as if Lucas slept easily, not worrying about the operation and certainly not about the tension that had risen between them. Was it only Amy that sensed any kind of tension? She was starting to assume it was.

By the time it had turned half six, Amy got dressed into a fresh strip of clothing, choosing jeans and a frilled white blouse: the attire of Amanda Reynolds. Amy Holland, MI5 analyst, would have opted for jeans and a rock band T-shirt with a waistcoat, or a bright coloured hoodie. Sophistication wasn’t something that Amy felt she had.

The streets were fairly quiet and Amy slipped into a café, ordering two bagels and two Americano coffees. Then she walked back to the flat, feeling that she could finally find a sense of peace out in the chilled mid-March air.

By the time Amy got back to the flat, she walked in to find that Lucas had vacated the sofa. She could hear the splashing of bathwater and an offkey singing voice coming from the bathroom.

Amy giggled and placed the breakfasts down on the coffee table in the living room, waiting for Lucas to re-appear.

When he finally made an appearance, Lucas sauntered over to the sofa and sat down, leaving a gap between Amy and himself.

“I hope you like bagels,” Amy said, giving a smile. “You brought breakfast yesterday so it’s only fair I do so today.”

***

Amy ventured out the flat after breakfast, deciding to get out of Lucas’ way for a few hours. The cover story was that Amanda and Ben were on annual leave for a week while they moved into their new property. Ben, being the owner of his own accountancy firm, had left the company in the capable hands of his best friend, and co-director, Patrick Lange. If any kind of phone call was needed to or from Patrick, Tariq had been asked to step in and lend his vocal skills.

First off, Amy sat down in a coffee shop and watched people wander past the window; tourists, residents. Some of them she could tell immediately as residents of London, carrying briefcases or dressed sharp for an upcoming meetings. Tourists tended to walk slower, some with cameras around their necks, and gazed around in excitement and wonder.

Her phone chimed. Well, Amanda’s phone. It was one of the many iPhones that were kept on the Grid specifically for operations, with disposable SIM cards.

Ben: Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t seem yourself this morning. Love you. Xxx

Of course all text messages had be sent in character, in case the devices were ever compromised. No personal devices were allowed. One very basic Nokia 3310 model was kept in order to report back to Harry in case any challenges occurred, and that was in Lucas’ possession.

Amanda: Yes, I’m fine, sweetie. I’ll be back later.  xx

Sweetie. Acting out this whole made-up scenario was angering Amy.

Amy continued on walking, disappearing in and out of shops. All of the money she had was in physical cash. No personal credit and debit cards were to be used while on operation. Every aspect of who she really was had been erased. For the next two or three weeks, Amy Holland didn’t exist. When she looked into a mirror, Amanda Reynolds looked back. Amy could imagine the reflection smirking at her, the diamond sparkling so brightly on her left hand, with Ben’s arm wrapped around her. Ben’s steel blue eyes looking back, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the mere sight of Amy.

Like I’d ever look at you twice.

Back at the flat, Lucas put more items away, concentrating on the kitchenware. However, his mind couldn’t stop spiralling into thoughts of Amy. She was confusing him and it was twisting his gut so tight. Suddenly he got up from the tiled floor, where he had been putting pots and pans into the cupboards, and called her.

“Amanda?” he asked.

“Ben,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“No one is directly around me.”

“We need to talk on neutral ground.”

“Please, no. We can talk when I get back.”

“We have to be careful as we can be compromised, you know that.”

“I’m on my way back now. We’ll talk more after the dinner. I’ll be back in about half hour.”

The line then went quiet as Amy terminated the call.

Lucas sighed in frustration. In all the months that he had known Amy, which was almost a year, he had never known her be so aloof. She was naturally a shier person, but he had never known her react like this.

Amy got back to the flat within the half hour that she had promised. She stepped into the living room to see Lucas sat on the sofa. The gorgeous bastard looked up at her and smiled sadly.

“After the dinner, we’ll go for a walk,” she proposed.

***

Amy and Lucas prepared themselves for the dinner with their new neighbours at around six.

Lucas was dressed in a black suit jacket and white shirt, with the top two buttons popped open. It was complimented nicely with a pair of dark jeans, giving a casual edge.

Amy stepped out of the bedroom, her short pixie cut freshly washed and neatly brushed. She wore a black dress with frills on the wrist, and paired with black dolly shoes. Her whole look was sophistication mixed with a sense of comfort.

As Lucas looked at her, he swallowed hard. She was wearing a dark eyeshadow and mascara which accented her deep green eyes perfectly. He could sense her discomfort at the get-up, knowing that this wasn’t her usual style, but he couldn’t help feel it suited her so well.

Amy tried to avoid eye contact and made her way to the door in silence.

Lucas followed on behind, feeling his stomach twist yet again at her distance from him. He grabbed a bottle of wine from the table by the door, and then closed it behind them.

Pam was the one to answer the door. She grinned at her new neighbours and let them in. “Take a seat. Dinner won’t be too long now. I’m preparing smoked salmon, topped in my special sauce. Chef’s secret as to the recipe. Everyone who has ever tried it has raved over it.”

“Good man!” Ted exclaimed, taking the bottle of red wine from Lucas. “Priorities.”

Amy glanced around the living room, noticing that there was far less in it than hers and Lucas’ temporary abode. The flooring was wooden, and the lights bright. Everything felt too clean and sterile for Amy’s liking. She sat down on a black leather sofa, and then tensed as Lucas perched beside her. He took her hand and rested it on his knee, then caught her gaze and smiled, giving her a very slight nod.

“So, how did you two meet?” Pam asked, preparing glasses as Ted popped open the wine bottle.

“Do you want a coffee? You said last night you don’t drink,” Ted asked Amy, interjecting himself into the conversation before anyone else could speak.

“Oh, yes, please. That would be perfect,” she replied with a grateful smile.

Lucas began to talk, still holding Amy’s hand. He rolled out the spiel that he and Amy had been given as part of their briefing pack. Amanda and Ben had met through mutual friends at a Christmas party.

The words rolled effortlessly off Lucas’ tongue, Amy mused. And how she wished all of it was true. To be loved, wanted, proposed to, lived with. She desperately wanted it all. Life was cruel. Rather than be dealt such a lucky hand, she instead had to act it all out, pretend, and live behind a happy mask, where her heart beneath was breaking.

“You definitely struck lucky, love,” Pam told Amy with a wink.

The conversation between Lucas and Ted seemed to flow without much thought. However, Lucas’ hand moving up Amy’s thigh, curling further into the inside of her leg.

Shivers began to race up Amy’s spine as she felt his fingers caress her skin through her thin tights.

Most of the conversation seemed to merge into a mindless chatter as Amy concentrated on Lucas’ hand on her leg. She studied the veins in the back of his hand, which then caused images of him touching her in more intimate places to flicker through her mind.

By the time that dinner was ready and the group had moved into the dining room, which again was a sterile looking room, Lucas had finally got onto the topic of conversation that he needed: Ted’s work.

The table was only small, considering that the flat was large. It gave way for more kitchen space and cabinets. This meant that Amy was sat directly next to Lucas again, with Pam and Ted opposite them.

“How long have you owned the charity, Ted?” Lucas asked, slipping into his seat.

Ted began to answer while Pam laid out all the dishes in the centre of the table, her hands covered in oven gloves. “The charity was actually started by my father, who died five years ago, so it was handed down to me. He always spent his life helping disadvantaged children; it was all he cared about.” Something flickered across Ted’s face. Resentment, anger? Lucas couldn’t quite tell. But maybe that was where he could probe further.

“Are you alright, love?” Pam asked, sitting down directly opposite Amy. “You look a bit pale.”

“It’s probably the new foundation I’m using. I decided to try a lighter colour as the one before, by Clinique was too dark.” Where had that response come from? Maybe Amy wasn’t quite as bad at this acting while undercover thing as she had originally thought. Suddenly she felt something on her leg and jumped. Thankfully, Pam had started talking to Lucas and Ted again, so none of them noticed her jump. Why was Lucas touching her leg? Their lower halves were concealed beneath the table, which meant he didn’t have to touch her in order for anyone to believe they were lovers.

While Amy eat her meal, she couldn’t stop thinking about Lucas’ hand coming back to her leg.

“So, how did you choose to propose?” Pam asked, grinning. “I always adore love stories.”

Lucas blushed and then looked at Amy, catching her gaze. Then, he touched her leg again. Only this time, Amy didn’t flinch. In fact, upon instinct, she leaned her leg into his touch. “I just knew that I couldn’t live without her in my life. I wanted to wake up next to her, have kids with her. Cliché, I know. So I took her away for Christmas, to New York where she’d always wanted to go, and proposed in front of the Statue of Liberty.” His eyes were still locked on hers as he spoke.

A sudden wave of nausea hit Amy and she leaned to the side, away from Lucas.

“Are you okay, babe?” Lucas asked. “She’s been like this on and off the last couple of days.”

Pam’s bright blue eyes lit up in excitement. “Maybe it’s the pitter patter of tiny feet.”

“I’m going to have to head back to the flat. I’m so sorry to both of you,” Amy said, bolting up from her seat.

Lucas got up beside her and wound his arm around her waist. “Sorry to leave so abruptly, but she comes first.”

“Of course,” Ted chuckled. “We’ll have to re-schedule for a better time.”

Amy and Lucas bid their farewells to their guests and head back to the flat. Amy dashed inside and raced to the bathroom, slamming the door. Rather than vomiting, she got to her knees on the floor and felt the tears of sadness roll down her cheeks.

The door opened and Lucas stepped inside. He looked down as she sobbed and fell to his knees beside her. “Aim, what’s wrong?” he whispered. “You’re scaring me.”

“You don’t have to keep the act going, Lucas,” she snapped, glaring at him. “Pam and Ted aren’t here.”

“Get dressed into something more comfortable and warmer. We’ll go for a walk,” Lucas said, his voice becoming authoritative.

“I don’t want…”

“While we’re on this operation, I’m the senior officer. Please get changed and we’ll go for a walk.” Lucas felt a stab of shame as he spoke those words, knowing he was using his own position for gain, but he needed to know what was happening. Her behaviour was becoming more erratic. Not only was she worrying him for her wellbeing, but if she continued to act like this then the op would be compromised.

Fuck the operation! I care more about her.

Fifteen minutes later and Amy walked beside Lucas, the darkness and cold evening air wrapping tight around them. Once they were a few streets away from the flat, Amy and Lucas sat down on a bench in a small park.

“You really are scaring me, Amy. What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. “This is me asking because I care for your wellbeing. It’s not an act.” The word ‘act’ dripped with anger. He noticed that, yet again, she’d taken the engagement ring off.

Amy noticed him look at her hand. “I can’t wear that ring, Lucas. Please don’t make me wear it when I don’t have to.”

“We’re on surveillance and undercover twenty-four seven with this operation. You shouldn’t take it on and off when you please like this. This goes deeper than that, Aim. I know you hate me touching you, and I’m sorry I have to do it.”

“I know it’s all an act for the op, Lucas. Don’t apologise.”

“Is it all an act?” he asked. His gaze locked on Amy’s. “I know I shouldn’t have touched you under the table. There was no need for that. The truth is, none of this has been an act for me.”

Amy’s eyes were wide in shock and sadness as she stared at him. “It’s not just my imagination?” she whispered.

“No,” Lucas replied with a smile. “And when you said about not wanting me to touch you…”

“I didn’t mean that I didn’t want you to touch me. It’s I…I’ve liked you for a while Lucas, and it was getting too much. Playing it all like a game when deep down it’s something I want. I’m living another woman’s life that I want.”

Lucas slipped closer to Amy and cupped her cheek with his hand. “Is it me or Ben Waverley that you want?”

“Of course it’s you I want.” Amy replied, her face broad with a huge smile.

Lucas moved even closer to her still, until their lips touched. The kiss started as a simple peck, a moment of uncertainty, but Amy’s hand tugging Lucas’ jacket spurred him on. The kiss grew deeper, their tongues meeting and warmth rising.

As they both parted, Lucas smiled upon the slight of Amy’s beautiful flushed cheeks. She looked so innocent and angelic in those moments; her eyes sparkling in happiness, her cheeks flushed and her lips plump.

“Does this mean that if you want Amanda’s life that you’re planning on leaving MI5?” Lucas chuckled. “Pack up and go work as a solicitor’s secretary. We’d miss you.”

“Maybe I don’t want that part of her life.”

“If we do this, Aim, and have a relationship, we won’t be put together undercover again, you know that, don’t you?” Lucas asked. “Harry can’t risk any compromise. We’d be a weakness to each other.”

“Maybe on this op we can draw strength from each other. It’ll definitely make the act easier to keep up.”

Lucas and Amy walked back to the flat hand in hand. The whole time and Amy was beaming, unable to hide the happiness she was feeling in those moments. Her gaze would drift down to their joined hands every few minutes.

Back at the flat, Lucas let Amy in ahead of himself, his hand brushing against her lower back. He followed on behind her and closed the door. The way she turned to face him and looked up smiling, her cheeks still flushed, made his heart skip and his stomach flutter. She was so beautiful, with innocence shining brightly in her eyes and love curling her lips upwards.

Lucas stepped forward and wound his arm around her waist, drawing her in and then leaned down to kiss her again.

Their kiss grew hot very quickly, with their bodies entwining.

Amy opened her eyes slowly, looking up into the silver blue depths of Lucas’ gaze. That all too familiar smirk began to form in the corner of his mouth.

Amy slipped out of his hold and walked slowly into the kitchen, looking down at the table. The engagement ring was still in the centre where she had left it.

Lucas moved around her and picked up the ring. Then he gently lifted her left hand. “I know you don’t want to wear it, Aim, but please do this for me.”

With a sigh, Amy watched as Lucas slid the diamond solitaire ring onto her hand. It felt as though the ring had been sized perfectly and belonged there. “Maybe one day I’ll have someone doing it for real.”

Lucas smiled sadly, feeling a lump form in his throat. Words swarmed in Lucas’ mind. Just one sentence to respond to Amy’s sad comment. But the right one would not come. Instead, he remained quiet. Perhaps one day it might have been him putting a ring on her hand, and meaning it. However, for now, he would have to wait and see, and hope for that future to come.

***

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#Lucas North #Spooks #MI5 #Richard Armitage #Fanfic #Lucas North x OFC #Lucas North x OC

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serenailith · 2 years

Text

it was a piece of cake (but making cake's not easy)

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: b1, bakery Rating: e Word Count: 26340 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - human, baker!hob, literary agent!dream, heartbreak, anal sex, blowjob, self-doubts, dream really sucks at having faith in relationships, it’s a problem, calliope is NOT the villain, eating disorders Summary:

Dream has been going through the motions for three years, so when walks into the bakery, he isn't expecting for anything to really catch his eye. Certainly not the man behind the counter. But life has a funny way of unfolding, a painful lesson Dream and Hob are about to learn.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Dream sighs but follows Lucienne into the little bakery. She’s extolled its virtues for the past month, and now she has decided he must try it for himself and “Pastries just don’t travel well, sir.” So here he finds himself, stood in the queue as a line of people order and wait and go on their way.

He must admit he doesn’t understand the appeal. There are dozens of bakeries in central London from which he can obtain pastries and coffee. He’s certain there are a handful nearer his office, at the very least. He cannot imagine what makes this one so different that Lucienne had to drag him here.

He looks away from the large menu behind the counter and—

Oh.

He sees why, now.

A man stands behind the display case, cheerfully packing up danishes and muffins and croissants. The sour-faced woman at the till repeatedly rolls her eyes when he greets a customer by name and asks after someone in their life. But even through the distance, even though he knows nothing of these two, Dream can feel the love between them. He can see that the woman cares deeply for the man and holds no true judgement.

Lucienne nudges him, and he falls into step beside her as they approach the counter. She orders a hot latte with skim milk and a scone, while Dream peruses the options in the display case. His eyes have just landed on a rather large muffin dotted with plump blueberries when movement behind the case catches his attention. He glances away from the muffin and stiffens at the sight of the man.

His brilliant smile invites conversation, his dark brown eyes twinkling with good humour. A splash of flour dusts his cheek and the shoulder of his T-shirt, as if he’d wiped his hand there. The slightest tint of purple-blue lingers in the corner of his mouth—he must have been sampling his own offerings. His eyebrow quirks, just slightly, just enough to betray his confusion.

“He’ll have a lemon-blueberry muffin,” Lucienne says suddenly, and Dream blinks for what feels like the first time in forever, “and a flat white with caramel in it, please.”

“Of course. Jo’ll get you sorted, then.”

Jo glares at the man before turning to face Lucienne. Dream ignores the women as he watches the man gather up the baked goods; his hands are sturdy, quick in their movements. He whistles a jaunty tune as he wraps the scone in waxed paper. There are bits of dough beneath his fingernails. The man hardly seems to care for his appearance, judging by the unkempt pale blue T-shirt that, along with the smear of a flour handprint, bears stains from a fruit filling on the hem. His hair is pulled back into a ridiculous little bun at the base of his skull.

Dream can hardly take his eyes off the man.

Unfortunately, Lucienne doesn’t let him linger or waste away the hours just staring at this man. Her love of responsibility causes her to shove Dream’s coffee into one of his hands, his muffin into the other, then usher him out of the building.

Dream has never found her prudence more rude. But, though she is “only” his assistant, she is the one who takes the lead more often than not. He has entrusted her with his schedule, his time, his entire life. Dream knows that, without her, he is nothing. So he allows her to dictate most of his days.

His mind stays firmly on the baker throughout the day. Though he fights it, his focus drifts from the manuscripts and query lettesr on his desk and back to the man who’d been so happy to recognise people who came in for his goods. Very indescribably delicious goods. Dream had taken one tiny bite of the muffin, let the taste linger on his tongue for all of five seconds, then stuffed half the muffin into his mouth. Lucienne would have scolded him, he’s sure, except for the fact she’d done much the same with her scone.

“Sir, Mister Burgess is on line two.”

Dream sighs and presses his fingertips to his temple, already feeling the migraine brewing. RoderickBurgess has been a complete twat; he’s refused to accept Dream’s rejection of bringing him on as a client. More days of the week than not, Burgess is on the line demanding Dream change his mind.

Unfortunately for him, Dream won’t make a different choice. The very idea of a hack like Burgess trying to make it in the literary world is laughable. Nothing Burgess has ever submitted for consideration has earned him any praise; it is all drivel from a man who believes himself entitled to praise and acclaim. He wants to be represented for publication, and he wants it now.

Dream refuses to have his name attached to someone like Burgess. He would rather die than have his reputation tarnished by the connection.

Burgess takes the news, unchanged though it is, rather horribly. He spends the entire call alternating between threatening Dream and attempting to bribe him. Dream stays firm, hangs up, and immediately moves on to the next task. Rose Walker’s manuscript won’t be picked up by a publisher on its own, after all, and wasting any more brainpower on Burgess is a drain of mental resources.

That night, Dream goes home to an empty house and wonders, not for the first time, if this is all life has to offer him.

He wakes to silence, just as he does every day, and squeezes his eyes closed. If he tries hard enough, he imagines he can feel the warmth of a body beside his. That hasn’t been a reality in three years, not since Calliope left. He curls his fingers in against his palm and resists the urge to reach out. He knows there will be no one there; proving it will only hurt.

Pushing away the melancholy that has settled into his bones, Dream sits upright and runs a hand through his wild hair. A bird sings in the tree just outside his window, and he glares in its direction. Such cheery sounds should be banned, he thinks before disregarding the thought. It isn’t the bird’s fault he’s in such a dour mood. He scratches at a spot behind his ear as he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Cold wood meets the bottoms of his feet, and Dream bites back a hiss at the drastic temperature difference. He hurries to shove his feet into his slippers before dropping to sit on the edge of the mattress. The day’s weight rests heavily on his shoulders, and it’s barely begun. He wishes to escape the mundanity of his day-to-day, but it’s that same mundanity that affords him the life he leads.

Not much of a life, he thinks with a disparaging look around. There are no costly trinkets, no expensive art on the wall, no fine vases breaking up the empty shell of his flat. The only thing he has to decorate the husk, the poor mimicry of a home, is an ornate rug on the living room floor. It had been Calliope’s; it was too large and cumbersome for her to drag it out, so she’d left it behind.

Just as she’d left Dream behind.

“Pull yourself together,” he snaps, voice echoing in the silence, and he presses his palms to his closed eyelids.

He’s completely over the fact Calliope ended their relationship so suddenly. Without warning. Without explanation. He no longer dwells on it, not even late in the night when he can’t sleep and spends hours watching the stars through his bedroom window. He doesn’t need the answers to questions he’s asked too many damn times.

Dream has accepted reality and moved on.

Even his subconscious thinks it’s a load of shit.

Pushing himself to his slippered feet, Dream makes his way to the kitchen. He isn’t hungry—hasn’t truly been in so long—so he bypasses the refrigerator completely in favour of the coffee machine. Coffee is a better friend this morning than food. It usually is.

Lucienne takes him to the same bakery as yesterday: Hob’s. An interesting, if uninspiring, name for an establishment. It gives no indication as to what the place is. Dream finds he rather enjoys the initial mystery of it. Though, if he’s to be honest, he never would have stepped foot through the door if it hadn’t been for Lucienne.

Dream keeps his gaze firmly on the menu board so he doesn’t stare at the man this time. He needn’t have worried: The man is nowhere to be seen by the time Lucienne and Dream approach the till. The woman behind the counter is different today. No longer the scowling slight woman of yesterday, this one wears a bright smile that reminds him so much of Thana. He should call his sister, he thinks as Lucienne orders a scone and lemon-blueberry muffin with their two coffees.

She glances at Dream as they make their way back to the car several minutes later. “Is everything okay, sir?”

“Hmm?” Dream realises he’s frowning, an ache forming between his brows, and forces himself to relax before he slides into the passenger seat of her car. “Everything is fine.”

“Should—should I have ordered you something different?”

“No, Lucienne. This is adequate.” He hesitates then amends, “They are… delicious. The baker is quite skilled.”

“Yes, I agree.”

They lapse into silence as she navigates them through the London traffic. It’s odd, he thinks, that he can be so uncomfortable with someone he’s known for years. Someone he trusts with more than his life. Lucienne has seen him at his worst and stayed, and still things are so stilted and awkward between them. Dream wonders if ever he will find it easy to converse with another.

Calliope is the only one, outside of his sister, with whom he had less trouble speaking. Not ‘no trouble’, simply… less. Lucienne should be amongst those, admittedly low, numbers for all she’s done for Dream.

The day passes much like Dream assumed it would: Long, uneventful, and ultimately draining. Lucienne leaves him outside of his building, and he waits until her sedan disappears from sight before he opens the door. Warm air gusts out, and Dream smiles slightly as he heads toward the lift. Stepping into his flat, however, is less welcoming than the warm foyer of the building.

Dream drops his bag onto the floor by the door, his keys in the bowl on the table in the entryway. The air holds a chill that has yet to dissipate even after so long, the frigid weight of loneliness seeping into every molecule of the flat. With a soft sigh, and more than ample self-hatred, he digs his phone from his pocket and opens the last message Calliope ever sent him. I’m on my way home now. I love you.

He shouldn’t keep it. He knows Calliope is never coming back. She’s made that abundantly clear over the last three years, the most obvious of evidence in the divorce papers she’d had delivered to his office. He hadn’t contested—what good would it have done? Dream has known Calliope since they were teenagers. He knows there’s no changing her mind when she makes a decision. And dissolving their marriage was a decision she’d never take back.

He doesn’t blame her. He wishes she’d only given him a reason. They were talking about starting a family in the months leading up to her sudden disappearance from their flat. He’d come home to all of her belongings gone and not even a note to explain.

Instead of deleting the text like he should, Dream locks his phone and sets it carefully on the counter, as if jostling it too much will delete the text for him.

Lucienne seems to understand how his night went when she gets a look at him the next morning. “Sir…”

“I know.”

And Dream does. He knows that he’s lingered for far too long on a failed relationship, but he can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t want Calliope back—she destroyed him too surely for that. But the lack of answers is what keeps him holding on to the past. It isn’t fair.

Life isn’t fair, his father’s voice snarls in the back of his head, and Dream aches to punch it free.

He doesn’t get out of the car when Lucienne comes to a stop outside Hob’s. Her sigh echoes in the silence long after she’s gone inside, and Dream rests his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes. Today is going to be a long day if the ghost of his father and the memories of his ex-wife have their way.

The flat white isn’t as delicious today. There’s something missing in it, but he keeps it to himself. There is no point in mentioning something that’s most likely his imagination. Lucienne takes a sip of her latte and grimaces.

“Oh, I hope Hob is back tomorrow,” she announces as she sets the drink in the cup holder. “That is… dreadful. How’s yours, sir?”

“Awful.”

As Lucienne shifts the car into gear, Dream silently hopes Hob is back tomorrow, as well. If only for better coffee.

It takes a week before Hob is back. His skin holds an ashen tone, and his eyes betray him by giving away his exhaustion. But his smile is bright as ever. Dream stands in the doorway for a long minute, staring at the rapidly-dwindling queue, and debates whether to leave without ordering. Now I’m stuck, he thinks when Hob catches sight of him and grins. Dream would look foolish if he walked out now.

So he puts one foot in front of the other and curses Lucienne for coming down with the flu. Dream’s mouth dries, his throat closes, the closer he gets to the till. He licks his lips to wet them, but it does no good. His lips part, and he struggles to force the words out.

They are unnecessary. Hob is already reaching into the pastry case with a gloved hand.

“Where’s your friend?” he asks as he plucks up a lemon-blueberry muffin.

“Ill.”

“Ah. Seems there’s something going around,” Hob sighs and passes over the bagged muffin. “Well, tell her I hope she feels better, and I have a chicken soup recipe that’ll get her back on her feet in no time.”

“I will convey that message,” Dream manages after a long moment.

Hob grins again from where he’s preparing Dream’s flat white with caramel.

It isn’t until Dream is out the door that it sinks in: Hob had remembered his order. He’d recognised Dream and known what to make.

It makes sense, considering how often Dream and Lucienne have come in for coffee and pastries, but it still causes something warm to curl up like a cat in the base of Dream’s chest. He scowls and shoves it away. He can’t find something personal in the action. After all, Hob has proven he does it to people he sees regularly. What’s one more order to memorise?

Unfortunately, Dream is on his own the next day, as well. Hob is already moving by the time Dream finally walks into the bakery and has Dream’s order waiting before he even reaches the counter. It takes all of Dream’s willpower to not stumble to a stop at the speed—and consideration. He pays silently, nodding stiffly at the teen behind the till, and reaches for the bag that Hob holds out.

“My friend says she would be thankful for the chicken soup recipe,” he says, voice almost too quiet under the din of conversation around him. How are people so talkative this early in the morning?

“Great. I’ll have it tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a great day,” Hob says with a too-cheerful grin, and Dream merely nods again before making a hasty retreat.

Matthew fills in for Lucienne, and Dream finds himself wistfully thinking of all the ways she’s made his life easier. At the very least, she makes it so he doesn’t have to speak to the man who sends him tongue-tied and tripping over his own words. At the most, she handles much more than just secretarial duties; she’s a friend in as close a sense of the word as Dream can allow.

Matthew, on the other hand, is… adequate. He answers phones and reads over manuscripts like he’s meant to. Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite have Lucienne’s eye for what makes for a good story. Dream doesn’t have the heart to tell the other man that his opinion on the manuscripts is flawed at its basest, so he suffers through bad story after bad story until he reaches one diamond in the rough.

Dream cannot wait until Lucienne is back.

Thankfully, she’s back within two weeks. She feels better than ever, she says as she takes her seat behind the desk, and Matthew visibly slumps in relief before scurrying off to do whatever it is he was hired for. Dream doesn’t remember, but he thinks Matthew might be Desi’s assistant.

The daily trips to Hob’s continue over the next couple of months. Though Lucienne tries a variety of baked goods and coffees, Dream stays with the same lemon-blueberry muffin and flat white with caramel. There is no need to order anything different when he’s pleased enough with what he’s had. Change is unnecessary.

He notices, though, that Lucienne wears an amused little smile now whenever they leave the bakery/café. Dream wastes precious hours trying to figure out why. He can’t think of a reason for the indecipherable grin. He gives up around lunchtime, knowing he will never understand on his own. Lucienne is quite adept at keeping her secrets when she wants to.

“You seem happy,” he says, stilted and awkward, when she arrives at noon with their lunches. She raises a perfect brow and gives him that enigmatic smile once more.

“Of course, sir. It’s a beautiful day out.” Lucienne’s lips press together, though her smile remains. Then, she seemingly takes pity on him: “Have you noticed, sir, that Hob is, well, flirting with you?”

Dream stares blankly before shaking his head. “He is not.”

“He is. Haven’t you realised he has your order memorised? He has to ask me every time what I’d like.”

“In his defence, you change your order every third time we go in.”

“Whether or not that’s true, it has no bearing on the fact that Hob flirts with you every single time he lays eyes on you.” She shrugs delicate shoulders and heads for the door. “If you don’t believe me, pay attention tomorrow morning.”

All of Dream’s focus vanishes and doesn’t return for the rest of the day. He can’t concentrate on the manuscripts or sending emails to various publishers. He hardly hears anything Lucienne says to him throughout the hours.

Could she be right? Is Hob actually flirting with him? Dream has to admit that Hob has been a star of his errant thoughts since that first day, when he’d made a fool of himself and Lucienne had had to save him from his awkwardness. Dream has caught himself occasionally wondering about the baker. Whether he enjoys his profession, what type of person he is. If he likes to read. Dream isn’t sure he could entertain even an acquaintanceship with one who doesn’t enjoy reading.

But if Hob is truly interested in Dream enough to flirt… Dream thinks that changes everything. His memorising Dream’s order is no longer impersonal—it’s quite the opposite. Dream is certain it isn’t anything more than good customer service, no matter what Lucienne says, but for Hob to show an attraction, no matter how small, is…

Dream wonders if it’s the best thing, to entertain thoughts of what could be if he’d only forget Calliope completely.

Hob is absolutely flirting with him. Even a disaster like Dream can recognise that the next morning.

Thankfully, Lucienne doesn’t say a word, only smiles, when Dream leaves a business card on the counter before making his way to the door at a near-run. He doesn’t even care that he’s forgotten to grab his lemon-blueberry muffin. He only needs to get away before he can storm back inside and grab the card before Hob can see it.

“That was brave,” Lucienne remarks once she’s behind the steering wheel, and Dream grits his teeth against the amusement in her voice. “I’m being serious, sir. That, what you just did? It was incredibly brave of you. I know… Forgive me for speaking out of turn, sir. I know things haven’t been the easiest these past few years, but you’ve done something I think can make you happy.”

“I would rather not discuss this right now.”

She hums in response and starts the car. He turns his face toward the window and closes his eyes. She’s seen him at his worst, and he’s thankful she is seeing him now. Maybe she will stop worrying so.

Dream forces himself to focus on his work instead of dwelling on the fact he’s left his name and number for a perfect stranger.

Later that evening, once she’s come to a stop outside his building, Lucienne gives him a knowing look before he exits the car. Dream frowns, a question on his tongue, but closes the door without asking. He watches her car disappear from view then heads in to his flat.

He spends the next two hours going over Rose Walker’s manuscript once more, smiling slightly at the words on the pages. She has raw talent; he makes a mental note to suggest an editor for her next book. The sun has begun to set by the time he enters his kitchen. He sighs, goes through the motions of cooking dinner, then sits at the small dining table by himself with a plate of food before him.

The sight and smell turn his stomach. Hunger is an unfamiliar thing these days, rarely making an appearance in his life, though Lucienne makes sure he eats at least once a day. Dream taps the tines of his fork against the edge of his plate and glowers at the simple meal of a seasoned chicken breast, roasted potatoes, and corn. It had been his favourite before. Why does he hate it so now?

Thankfully, Dream is jerked forcibly from his ruminations by the sound of his ringtone. He frowns and stares at his cellphone vibrating across the countertop. He can’t think of a single person who would disturb him this late into the evening; Thana works the night shift at the hospital, Del rarely phones—she prefers to text—and Desi would wait until they see him face-to-face before saying anything. Lucienne would email.

“Hello?”

“Oh. Er… Hi.”

Dream’s frown deepens at the vaguely familiar voice that filters down the line. He can’t place where he’s heard it from, but he can admit it’s a pleasant voice. The man coughs quietly on the other end.

“It’s—it’s Hob. You, er, gave me your card this morning.”

Oh. Dream chews on his lower lip as his stomach swoops to his feet. His heart gives a tremendous lurch before bursting into a gallop. There’s no hiding the slight smile that tugs at his lips.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” Hob breathes then lets out an awkward chuckle. “I… I’m sorry if I’m phoning too late. I just got home from the bakery, so—”

“You are not. Phoning too late, I mean. I—I wasn’t busy.”

Dream grimaces at how he stutters over his words. He can almost hear Desi’s voice in his ears, goading him into admitting he is an utter failure at socialisation with fellow humans. And he is. The past thirty-two years of his existence have proven that time and again. He knows it well enough already. Dream doesn’t need his sibling’s reminder.

“Good. That’s, that’s good.” Hob’s voice wavers just a little when he asks, “So how was your day?”

Dream freezes. His fingers grip the device tighter as he stares blankly ahead. After a few seconds, he moves to sit in his chair once more and reaches for his fork. How was his day, besides spent trying not to wonder about this man?

“I had a productive day,” he finally says, and Hob’s exhale crackles in his ear; Dream doesn’t know him, but even he can hear the relief in the sound. As if he worried Dream wouldn’t answer.

“So did I.”

Dream drags his fork through the small pile of corn on his plate before setting the utensil to the side. He bites down on his lower lip to stem the awkward rambling begging to break free. What he would say, he has no idea, but it would do no good to embarrass himself. Hob seems to feel the same: He doesn’t speak for a few long minutes. Finally:

“Would you want to have dinner with me?”

Yes. The voice in his head immediately counters his initial reaction: No. Not after how Calliope destroyed him. Dream can’t take that chance again. But, the smaller part of him says, we’re so tired of being lonely. So tired of not having someone. So damn tired of feeling broken because no one can love us.

Dream just wants someone to love him again, even if he will deny that yearning for the rest of his life.

“I… I would like that very much.”

“Really? I, wow, that’s—that’s great. Er, how does Friday evening work for you?”

Dream hesitates, screws up in his face as he struggles to recall his schedule for the week. There is really no need: He rarely has plans for any day of the week beyond working. And Lucienne would agree that he can afford to spend one evening not poring over manuscripts or obsessively refreshing his email account in hopes another publisher has picked up one of his clients.

“Friday will do.”

“Great.” Hob’s smile is evident in his voice. “I’ll pick you up around seven, is that okay?”

Seven is more than okay, seven is perfect, Dream thinks as he gives a much less exuberant affirmation. Hob ends the call after another handful of silent minutes, claiming an early morning, and Dream stares at his phone where it now lies on the table.

He has a date. He has a date. He has a date. He. Has. A. Date.

He’s just picked up his phone when it dings, a notification lighting up the screen: I forgot to ask what your address is. Dream sucks on the inside of his cheek as he types out a response; it’s slow-going, considering how little he texts. In the last month, he’s sent five messages, all to Del. Thankfully, she never truly expects a reply. It’s enough that she knows he reads everything she says.

As soon as the message is sent—and his heart rate is back within normal range—Dream dials a number. She answers within seconds.

“I need help.”

Thana doesn’t seem to mind his lack of greeting, immediately slipping into older sister mode. It takes more than two minutes to assure her he is in perfect health with no injury or harm brought upon him. She asks once more for confirmation that he’s fine, and he snaps:

“I am absolutely fine, Thana. It’s just… I have a date,” he says, voice small. He is less certain now that this date is a good idea. He hasn’t been on a date since the beginning of his relationship with Calliope, seven years ago. What if things are different now?

“A date? Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“So one would think.”

“You’re second-guessing already, aren’t you?” she sighs.

“What if… Thana, I have barely spoken to him before this. He is a stranger.”

“Is he cute?”

Dream frowns and rises to his feet. Tucking his phone between his shoulder and ear, he carries his plate across the room and scrapes the uneaten meal into the depths of the garbage bin. “He is attractive, yes.”

“Does he seem nice?”

“From what I have heard of him, yes. He—he makes sure to ask after every customer that comes in.”

“Then what’s the problem, little brother?” She inhales sharply, and when she speaks next, her voice has softened. “Oh, I understand now. Dream… You can’t let what Calliope did colour everything you do. Especially not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“This is hardly a ‘heart’ situation,” he protests, but he knows his sister doesn’t believe him.

“Please go on this date. If not for yourself, then for me. Help me stop worrying so much about you.”

“You need not worry.” He pauses, reaching for the sponge to clean the plate. “But… I will go.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Now, I have to go. Duty calls and all that. Phone me later, okay? I like hearing from you more than once a month.”

“I will. Thana?”

“Yeah, Dream?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, baby brother.”

She ends the call before he can say another word, but it doesn’t stop him from grimacing at the epithet. He’s always been “little brother” or, worse, “baby brother” to Thana. He loves her dearly, probably more than he loves his other siblings except for Del, though he imagines himself throttling her every so often. He never would. He doesn’t think so, anyway.

The next two days fly by. Dream can’t account for any of the hours of the last sixty and his nights are filled with nightmares. What if this date goes horribly, and Hob never wants to see Dream again? Then Hob’s will no longer be an option. Dream will never again taste the light decadence of a lemon-blueberry muffin or the perfect amount of caramel in a flat white. Lucienne will be annoyed at him for causing her to find a new bakery-and-café. Thana will pity him, Del will try to cheer him up in her own way. His eldest brother will only give platitudes that do nothing to ease the hurt. He’ll never know what his second-oldest brother will say.

Desi will never let him hear the end of it.

But he’d promised Thana he would go, so he makes it through the Friday from Hell without cancelling. Another call from Burgess, another threat against his life. His computer crashing—twice—and Desi sending Matthew to pester Dream about whatever tickles their fancy. Publishers rejecting Rose Walker’s story, which hurts Dream’s heart. Rose hasn’t let it stop her, but he is getting disheartened on her behalf.

Finally, the day ends. Lucienne takes him home, and Dream slumps into his flat with only one thought on his mind: Going to bed and not waking until morning. He’s just undressed when his phone dings from its position on his bed.

Thana (17.48): Have fun on your date tonight! Phone me tomorrow and tell me all about it!!!

The date. Oh, God, the date with Hob that Dream managed to forget in all the chaos of the day. He groans and rushes to the closet. He hadn’t even thought of what to wear. Or to ask Hob where he was planning to take Dream.

He has nothing. Not a single thing appropriate for a date. Dropping to sit on his bed, Dream realises he needs to do what he hoped he would never have to do: He needs to text his sibling.

He types, deletes, and re-types a message before finally sending it. Please come over. I need your help.

Desi (17.51): oh, big brother, whatever could you possibly need my help with?

Do not play games. I would not ask for help if I did not truly need it.

Desi (17.55): you owe me

A terrifying thought, to be sure, but Dream agrees anyway. He needs his sibling’s help, and if anyone will know how to dress appropriately for a date, it will be them. Dream can’t dare be picky about the conditions placed upon that assistance. Besides, he doesn’t think Desi would ask him for anything dangerous or illegal, just something to wound his pride.

They arrive within the half-hour, scarlet-painted lips stretched into a smug smile as they push past Dream. He closes his eyes and squeezes the doorknob for a moment then closes the door. When he turns to face his sibling, they raise an eyebrow.

“What do you need, big brother?”

“I… I have a date. In an hour,” he adds with a glance at the clock. “I’ve no idea what to wear, so I would like your help with that.”

“A date? Why, Dream, this is a surprise.”

Dream scowls and hunches in on himself. Desi’s shock isn’t unexpected, but they need not voice it so adamantly. He opens his mouth to speak, but Desi beats him to it.

“Wasn’t the last first date you went on with Calliope?”

“You dare bring her into this?” he hisses. “I should—”

“Should what, Dream?” Desi grins a sharp, vicious smile.“You need me, no matter how much you wish otherwise.”

Dream sighs, deflating. Desi is right. They both know there is nothing he can do to win this. With a wave of his hand, he heads to his bedroom and loathes the fact his sibling follows.

He hates even more the scrunch of Desi’s nose, the curl to their lip as they stare at the clothes in his closet.

“Have you thought of going shopping for a wardrobe that isn’t all black?”

“I like my wardrobe.”

“Clearly.” Desi sighs and rifles through the line of jeans. “Take it from me, Dream, variety is the spice of life. And colours can do a world of good for your mental state.”

“My mental state is perfectly adequate.”

“‘Perfectly adequate’ is hardly the glowing compliment you think it is, big brother. In fact, it’s downright sad.”

This is why Dream never calls upon Desi for anything. This, among other reasons.

Thankfully, his sibling pokes no more at him, only scowls as they hold up and discard clothing option after option. They mutter under their breath but otherwise don’t acknowledge their brother. After a while, they emerge from the back of the closet with a pair of black jeans and a navy button-down that Dream has forgotten he even owns. Dream takes the clothes from Desi and waits until they leave the room to dress and stand before the mirror on the back of his bedroom door.

His reflection stares back, and he has to admit… Desi has done an acceptable job. Dream thinks he might be a bit underdressed, considering he doesn’t know what this date will entail, but there is no time to waffle further on the situation. He has thirty minutes before Hob is meant to arrive. He sighs and exits his room.

Desi glances away from the screen of their phone, and Dream scowls at the lack of respect they have for his furniture.

“Get your feet off my sofa.”

“They aren’t on your sofa, big brother.”

“Can’t you ever just sit properly?” he says, exasperated to the point beyond words.

Desi takes pity on him, swinging their feet from off the arm of the sofa and to the floor, though they roll their eyes to signify their reluctance to obey his simple request. They pull themselves upright and give him a once-over. He stands still as their lips curve into a smile while they rise to their feet.

“You could look worse.”

It’s as high a compliment as he will ever receive from them, so Dream murmurs a thanks as Desi heads to the door. Their heels click on the hardwood, and their bleached hair practically glows in the harsh glare of the overhead lights. They turn to face Dream with one hand on the doorknob.

“My work here is as done as it will ever be,” they announce. “I’ll call on you when I need that favour.”

“You have my word, and—”

“I know. Your word is your bond. That’s one thing I’ve never doubted about you.” Desi stops, turns toward him once more, and their smile is softer now. Something reminiscent of what they used to look like before the relationship between the two changed irreparably. “I know we don’t always get along, but Dream? I really hope this date goes well.”

“Thank you. I—I do, too.”

Desi leaves then, pulling the door shut behind them with more force than necessary, and Dream grits his teeth. Of course they’d do one last thing to annoy Dream. But… He can’t really be upset with them. They’d stopped whatever they were doing to help him, and they had even wished him well on his date.

The decade-long feud had come to a close months ago, but Dream still struggles to believe it’s real. The fight had dragged on until neither could remember why it ever even began. It had taken a disastrous family dinner and their older sister to remind them of how close they used to be. The apology hadn’t been the hardest part. Reconciling has.

A knock sounds only five minutes later, and Dream realises with a start that he hasn’t moved from where he’s stood since Desi left. His hands clench into fists without permission, and it slowly registers in his mind that he’s shaking. His heart races in his chest, a rapid-fire tattoo that steals his breath. Wiping his palms on the thighs of his jeans, Dream makes his way to the door on shaky knees.

Hob stands just on the other side, and his eyes widen slightly once the door is fully open. A smile stretches his lips, and Dream gives him a quick once-over. Beneath his tan jacket, he wears a fitted navy T-shirt and black jeans. A flicker of amusement flares to life beneath Dream’s breast. Hob must feel the same about wearing nearly-matching outfits for he huffs out a quiet laugh.

After a moment, he lifts his right hand to eye-level. In it is a thin strip of wood, a black ribbon dangling from one end. Dream reaches out for it; Hob gives it over with a smile that hardly seems real—more uncomfortable than anything. There is no need for his nerves, Dream thinks as he examines the item.

The wood is silky smooth, cut into a long rectangle with a rounded end. A hole has been bored in the centre of the rounded end from which the ribbon hangs. On the body is a depiction of a muffin with blueberries with a lemon slice stuck into the top, the image burned into the surface. It’s the prettiest bookmark Dream has ever seen; it’s certainly the only one that’s been made so painstakingly.

“It’s lovely,” he says, finally dragging his gaze away from the gift. “I… I’m sorry, I did not think to get you something.”

“You didn’t have to,” Hob assures him. “I asked you out, after all. I—So you like it?”

“I do. Did you make it yourself?”

Hob visibly relaxes, and his smile reaches his eyes. Tugging at his left earlobe, he shrugs slightly.“Yeah, it’s a hobby I picked up as a teenager.”

“You are very talented. One moment.”

Dream crosses the living room to his bookshelf, carefully tucks the bookmark between the pages of a collection of Poe’s works, then makes his way to the door where Hob still stands. After slipping on his own jacket, Dream grabs his wallet and keys before stepping out into the hall. Hob waits while Dream locks the door, then the pair walk toward the lift.

The descent is quiet; Dream has no idea what to say. He grimaces internally—if this is any indication of how the night is going to go, he can’t imagine that Hob will ever want to see him again, not even as a customer. Conversation is a necessity on dates. He may not have been on a date since long before Calliope left him, but even he knows he will have to talk at some point. He’ll even have to steer the conversation on occasion; he can’t expect Hob to initiate every topic. ic.

God, but he’s awful at this. It’s no wonder he’s alone.

Don’t think like that. It’s Thana’s voice that plays in his head, and Dream closes his eyes for a second. Lets himself imagine everything she’d say if she had been the one to come over and help him prepare. You’ll do great. Sure, you’re a bit awkward, but aren’t we all. Awkward or not, though, you’re a great man, and anyone would be lucky enough to know you.

Right. Lucky. Dream exhales slowly before following Hob out of the lift. The man holds open the door to the building, gesturing Dream into the cool night air with a smile. Neither man speaks as they cross the street to what Dream assumes is Hob’s car—either that, or they’re about to start the night off with a felony carjacking. Dream isn’t sure whether he’d mind or not.

Thankfully, Hob doesn’t seem to mind Dream’s silence on the drive to… wherever it is he’s taking them. He just lets the radio play a soft rock song, singing along occasionally. After two songs, he reaches over to shut the radio off and clears his throat.

“I hope you’re alright with Chinese.”

“I have not had much experience with that type of cuisine.”

Hob mouths the word ‘cuisine’ as if he doesn’t believe Dream can see him, then nods slowly. “We can do something else if you’d like.”

“Chinese food will be fine, Hob. You will just have to help me decide what to order.”

“I can do that,” Hob says, smiling like he’s just won some sort of lottery.

Dream wonders about this man, how he can hold such happiness within himself when the world is more often than not a cesspool of negativity. How can Hob so clearly care so much about life when it’s oftentimes cruel? Desi has, on more than one occasion, called Dream a pessimist, but he’s always felt himself pragmatic, realistic. Compared to Hob, however… It causes Dream to wonder if his sibling is correct.

Dinner turns out to be less uncomfortable than Dream feared it would be. Hob asks questions that require more than one-word answers, and he actually listens to Dream’s responses. His expressions read more evidently on his face than Dream has ever seen on another before. He cares.

Dream learns about Hob, as well. How, when Hob was thirteen, he broke the window of the house next door and was forced to make amends with the woman that lived there. She took a shine to him and offered to teach him better things to do with his hands than destroy—she taught him to bake. Mrs Delacroix taught him everything he knows about the craft.

“And when she grew too old, I took over her duties of donating food and pastries to the local food banks and churches.” Hob huffs out a soft laugh. “Never seemed to matter the denomination. She fed them all.”

Now, he says, he’s thirty-four and just as in love with baking as he was at thirteen holding a whisk for the first time. His mother began recruiting him into helping her with baking the desserts for family dinners. Within the month, he was left to his own devices.

He learned woodwork at sixteen, another way to use his hands to create. “I—I saw you were a literary agent on your card, so I figured making a bookmark was a safe bet.”

Dream smiles and picks up a piece of beef with his chopsticks. “It… It’s a beautiful thing, and I am well pleased with it.”

Hob ducks his head but not before Dream sees the ruby to his cheeks. They lapse into a companionable silence as they eat, even Dream, then Hob pays, claiming it’s his right as the initiator of the date. Dream doesn’t argue. It feels like a debate he will never win, so he merely nods assent and follows Hob out of the restaurant.

Their next destination ends up being a squat brick building only five down from the restaurant. Through the large windows, Dream sees four rows of easels already adorned with canvases. He cocks his head as he watches a man striding between the rows, placing what appears to be palettes at each station. Hob’s face screws up when Dream turns to him.

“I thought it might be fun.”

“What is it?”

“It’s called paint and sip. You, well, you drink wine while painting.”

Dream pauses, thinks it over. It does sound like a pleasant time, even if he’s never painted before in his life. And Hob has already proven himself to be a wonderful companion. The worst that can happen, Dream concludes, is his painting turn out to be utter rubbish. His lips quirk, and he approaches the door, pulling it open for Hob to enter.

“After you.”

Hob’s face splits into a large smile, and he passes by Dream. As he does, his hand brushes Dream’s hip under his jacket, and Dream barely manages to suppress a shudder. Hob’s hand was warm, even through Dream’s button-down, and almost tender. It’s been so long since Dream has been touched in such a gentle manner. No other date has gone like this—not as if Dream has given many people chances.

But Hob… Dream already knows Hob is something special.

True to Dream’s prediction, and hopes, Hob is just as great a partner during the painting process as he was during dinner. He laughs at his own mistakes, talks about his family when the instructor is quiet, and compliments Dream’s attempts at painting a starry night sky under which a tent is pitched and the silhouette of a couple sits. Dream appreciates the fibbing, but even he knows it’s atrocious.

He doesn’t care, not when Hob leans closer, not when he can smell the scent of Hob’s cologne, not when he can feel the warmth when Hob is mere inches away.

The instructor tells them to take the paintings with them when they leave. Dream carefully carries his canvas so as not to smudge the paint. He holds both paintings on his lap as Hob drives them back to Dream’s flat; this time, conversation flows much more smoothly than Dream would ever have expected. Hob even laughs at the few jokes Dream tells. Dream settles back in his seat, more smug than he really has any right to be, and stares at Hob’s face while he drives.

His eyes shine in the lights from the dashboard, and Dream sees flashes of his teeth as he speaks. His grins are quick to come and slow to disappear. They’re beautiful in a way Dream can’t explain.

He also can’t explain the surprise when Hob walks him inside, waits through the ride in the lift, and then walks Dream to his door. Once there, Hob chews on his lower lip then smiles.

“Wanna trade?”

“Another gift you’ve given me,” Dream says even while they swap paintings. “I feel special.”

“You are.”

Dream’s breath catches in his throat at the earnestness in Hob’s voice. He coughs quietly then does what he never thought he’d do, something he never did even with Calliope on their first date:

He asks, “May I kiss you?”

“Absolutely.”

Hob’s answer is far too quick to be smooth, but Dream doesn’t mind at all. He leans forward just enough that their lips brush, and his sharp exhale gusts from him at the contact. Hob groans low in his throat and presses closer. His free hand comes up to cup Dream’s cheek, and Dream tilts his head into the touch. This allows Hob to deepen the kiss; Dream’s lips part beneath Hob’s, and that’s all it takes. He can’t breathe through the sudden, dizzying rush of want that floods through him.

He doesn’t want this night to end, not yet.

“I better go,” Hob mumbles into the kiss. “Or I won’t be able to stop.”

He pulls away slowly, diving back in for another kiss—this one chaste—before stepping back. Dream memorises the shape of Hob’s smile as he says a goodnight. Dream murmurs a goodnight in return then watches his date walk to the lift. Once the doors slide closed, Dream raises trembling fingers to his lips and grins at the ghost of a memory. Though it’s only just ended, Dream knows he won’t forget this first kiss.

Sleep comes easily that night. Dream’s mind replays the date. Each time, the details change but for the ending. He and Hob always share that devastatingly wonderful kiss. Even in his dreams, the kiss is spellbinding and intoxicating.

The next morning finds Dream just as entranced by the kiss he can still feel upon his lips. He busies himself with making coffee then checks the time. It should be early enough in the morning that he won’t wake her from her much-needed rest. Thana answers on the second ring, like she’s been waiting for her phone to ring.

“So? How did it go, little brother?

It was the best night of my life. No. That’s too eager, too much too soon. So Dream reigns in his words and replies, “It was a very pleasant evening.”

“You have to give me more than that, Dream!”

“We went to dinner—”

“Where?”

“A Chinese restaurant.”

“You ate Chinese food. You? The same man who orders the same muffin every time he goes to that bakery Lucienne found, and oh, my god, you’re dating the owner of that bakery Lucienne found!”

“It’s… We aren’t dating!” Dream protests over his sister’s gasp. “We went on one date, that is all!”

“Oh, Dream, I’m so happy for you. Imagine all the free coffee you’ll get.”

“I am not dating Hob for free coffee,” sniffs Dream.

“Ah, but you are dating him.”

“Would you like to hear about the rest of the evening, or would you prefer to continue this vein of conversation?”

Thana squeaks and makes a ‘zipping’ noise. “I’d love to hear about the evening.”

So Dream tells her about the way dinner had gone and about paint and sip, how much fun he’d had despite his initial reservations. He doesn’t tell her about the kids, though he admits he’s glad he went. Hob has turned out to be a decent man who can make Dream laugh.

“And laughter is something you desperately need in your life,” Thana says, and Dream would find her words flippant were it not for the softness of her tone. “I really am happy for you, little brother. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s you.”

“Thank you. I really am happy right now.”

“I hope it lasts. Now, let me tell you about my night.”

His good mood lasts until Monday morning, then it’s unceremoniously replaced by anxiety. Dream can’t tolerate even the thought of food so he skips breakfast completely. What if Hob has changed his mind about Dream, never wants another date? What if—

You’re letting yourself borrow worries. Calliope’s voice hurts to hear, but she’s right. She always was. So Dream draws in a shaky breath and heads to his closet to ready for work.

Hob’s cheeks turn red when Dream and Lucienne walk through the door to the bakery/café. His smile looks as real as it had three days before, and Dream swallows harshly at the memory of the taste of that smile—wine and spicy chicken. A combination that shouldn’t have worked but did anyway.

Jo narrows her eyes as she looks between Dream and Hob, then a smug smirk dances upon her lips. Dream feels his face heat, the warmth intensifying at Lucienne’s knowing glance. Thankfully, neither woman says anything except Lucienne ordering and Jo telling her the total. Dream barely listens, too intent on watching Hob moving about behind the counter.

The shirt he wears today fits perfectly, and it accentuates the muscles that shift beneath the fabric as he moves. His hair is in a low bun once more; Dream is almost sad to see it pulled back. He’d rather enjoyed the way it hung around Hob’s face on their date. The way he’d imagined how it would feel between his fingers before realising it was far too soon to think that way. Hob grins as he turns to face Dream, to-go cup in hand.

“You free on Friday?”

“I am.”

“Meet me here around five?”

“I will.”

It’s all they need to say, and Dream relaxes internally. Hob wants to see him again. That must count for something. Hob’s fingers brush against Dream’s as he passes over the flat white. A shiver runs down Dream’s spine, and he can’t stop the smile that breaks free. Small but no less real, it hopefully conveys more than his gratitude for the coffee.

Somehow, and Dream will never be able to explain it, the week goes by quickly. A publisher has finally picked up Rose’s book, so he at least has good news to give. Burgess doesn’t call at all; Dream waits with bated breath the entire week, but it was in vain. Even Desi has been less insufferable than usual.

They’d even asked Dream on Monday how his date went and seemed genuinely pleased to hear it went well.

He hesitates then asks Lucienne for a lift to the bakery. She hurries to finish up her tasks then follows Dream out to her car. Her silence lasts only until she pulls out into traffic.

“If I may, sir… I’m happy to see you happy.”

“Thank you, Lucienne. It’s—It’s nice to be happy.” He stares out the window at the passing buildings. “Do you think it’s a mistake to become involved in the man who runs your favourite bakery?”

She lets out an inelegant snort, shaking her head. “Of course not. I can’t imagine Hob holding it against anyone if things don’t work out.”

Dream sighs and lets his finger trail over the locking mechanism on the door. It’s nice to hear that she doesn’t believe Hob so vindictive, but there will always be that worry. After all, Hob is only human. Humans can be cruel when they want to be.

“I hope you are right,” he murmurs after a moment.

“So do I.”

Jo is pulling the drawer from the till when Dream walks in. Her “We’re closing” dies away once she sees him, then her lips stretch into that same smug smirk she wore Monday morning. And every other time he’s come in while she was working. She holds the drawer against her hip, calling over her shoulder:

“Oi, Hobsie, your boyfriend’s here!”

“Fuck off, Johanna,” is the response, and Jo—Johanna—snickers before disappearing into the back.

Hob emerges only a minute later. He looks a mess: Flour coats his hands, though he’s wiping them valiantly on a dishtowel, and there’s a smear of chocolate across his cheek. His T-shirt has the slightest dusting of either flour or powdered sugar along the hem. Locks of hair hang on either side of his face, sweat-damp and curling slightly.

He looked wonderful on their date, but Dream thinks Hob looks best like this. In his element.

Unfortunately, on his face is a twisted-up expression that rarely bodes well. He leans on the counter and pushes hair from his cheek. “I should have phoned.”

“You want to cancel.” Dream swallows the disappointment, bitter and acrid in his throat. Of course Hob wants to cancel. Why would he want to continue the charade of wanting to see Dream? It was inevitable, really, so Dream can’t really fault the man for reaching that point more quickly than others. “That—that… That’s fine. I’ll just…”

The words catch in his throat, and he turns away, back toward the door. He’s a fool for believing. He should have known. At least now, Hob no longer has to pretend. He can move on and be with someone he truly wishes to love. Dream only laments that it isn’t him.

Hob’s voice finally comes as Dream’s foot is through the doorway. “Wait, what? Of course I don’t want to cancel!”

Dream’s fingers flex around the doorhandle, but he doesn’t speak. It can’t be true. This only ever ends poorly, written in the stars to conclude in doom. Hob—

“Would you get back here, damn it?”

His feet move of their own accord: Dream finds himself before the counter once more only seconds later, and Hob frowns as his gaze tracks over Dream’s face. Whatever he sees causes him to blanch. His flour-covered hand reaches for Dream’s; Dream allows Hob to hesitantly lace their fingers together.

“Love, if I wanted to cancel, I would have done so long before now.” He smiles when Dream finally meets his eye. “I should have phoned to let you know I’d be running a bit behind. I’m doing a favour for my sister, it’s my nephew’s birthday tomorrow. So I’ve been convinced under duress to provide snacks. Because Tesco isn’t good enough, apparently.”

“I do not blame your sister for her particular wants. Tesco pales in comparison to your artistry.”

Hob’s lips part, and Dream relishes the rush of pink to the man’s cheeks. “Well… When you say it…” Hob sighs and squeezes Dream’s hand. “I’m afraid we’ll have to either start our date later, or postpone entirely.”

“Or,” Johanna’s voice cuts through the air, “and this might be a wild suggestion, but your boyfriend can help you with the baking.”

Dream’s eyes widen, and he glances at Hob. The other man takes pity on Dream; he tells Johanna to go home and bother Rachel. She only grins and heads toward the door while lifting her hand, middle finger raised. The bell over the door jangles before falling silent. Still Hob has not released Dream’s hand.

Dream doesn’t mind it. Hob’s hand is warm, sturdy. He runs his thumb over the ridge of a knuckle and picks over his words carefully. Instead of choosing to go home and await Hob’s free time, what comes out is:

“I would… I would like to watch you bake, if you are amenable to that.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s rather boring.”

Dream lifts his gaze until he is staring directly into Hob’s eyes, rich brown and full of confusion beneath brows drawn together. “I have had a particularly decent week. Good things have happened. I was looking forward to ending it on as high a note as it began. With you,” he adds when Hob only stares.

“Your clothes…”

“We will just have to take care not to make a mess.”

Famous last words, Dream thinks when the first cloud of flour settles on his button-down—he’d already shucked his blazer before even stepping foot into the kitchen. He has his sleeves rolled to his elbows at Hob’s insistence, but it has done no good in maintaining the cleanliness of his clothing. His gaze moves from the front of his shirt to Hob.

“At least they’ll wash?” Hob says with a rakish grin.

That they will, but that doesn’t stop Dream from pinching a small amount of flour between his fingertips and flicking it in Hob’s direction. It’s immature, childish, and completely out of character for Dream. It makes Hob laugh. He catches Dream’s hand in his own, pulling him closer.

The kiss is expected but no less sweet. Tender. Neither man makes a move to deepen it; they just leave it as gentle brushes of lips. Nonetheless, a shiver runs down Dream’s spine at each feather-light point of contact. He wonders when the last time a kiss elicited such a reaction like this. Perhaps in the beginning with Calliope, but not since.

His preoccupation explains how easily Hob surprises him with a puff of flour to his breast.

“Did you really just—?”

“You flicked flour at me first, love. I was only fighting fire with fire.”

With a soft exhale, Dream leans forward to press his lips to Hob’s. “Perhaps we were both a bit… exuberant.”

“Exuberant. Yeah. That sounds right.” Hob steps back and uses his thumb to brush at Dream’s chin. “I should really get to work.”

“I will endeavour to not distract you.”

“Oh, love, that’s an impossible ask.”

But Hob manages to work just fine with Dream sat on a stool only feet away. Row after row of cookie dough is placed onto a sheet and slid into the oven. While those bake, Hob starts filling muffin tins with batter, smashing chunks of fruit in metal bowls, blending cream cheese and sugar together. He does all this with an ease that Dream is envious of and a smile on his face.

“You enjoy this.”

“Hm?” Hob looks away from where he’s stirring fruit gel in a saucepan. “Yeah, I do.”

“I know you mentioned it at dinner, how you like this job, but… Seeing it is different from hearing it.”

“What about you? Any hobbies of your own?”

Dream hesitates. His only hobbies include reading and, embarrassingly enough, knitting. He hasn’t done the latter since Calliope left. She’d been the one to teach him, and he still can’t bring himself to enjoy something that reminds him of her.

But Hob asked, so Dream tells him the truth. He leaves out any information about his ex-wife. That’s a minefield best left unexplored. Hob seems to understand there is something Dream isn’t saying, but he doesn’t question it.

“You knit? That’s actually pretty awesome. Never have to buy mass-produced piles of shite.”

“Fast fashion is a terrible stain on this world.”

“I’d love to see something you’ve made.”

“Perhaps.”

Night has well and truly fallen by the time Hob places the last cupcake into the carrying tray. Dream helps tidy up the mess of flour, dough and batter that’s dripped to the countertops, the smears of fruit compote. He doesn’t miss the purple across Hob’s forehead from where he’d brushed his hair from his face, nor the yellow puree that lingers in the corner of his lips. Dream latches onto the surge of courage that he’s never held so dearly before, reaching forward to swipe a thumb over the glob of lemon gel. Hob’s eyes widen when Dream licks the mess from his thumb.

“You’re killing me,” Hob whispers before his hands come up to cradle Dream’s cheeks. “And what a fucking way to go.”

Dream doesn’t get the chance to admit how deeply his own feelings run already, how often he thinks of Hob despite this being their second date, before Hob is backing him against the counter, lips colliding with Dream’s. The kiss is devouring, demanding. Dream willingly gives as much as Hob takes; his hands clutch at the front of Hob’s shirt, tugging him closer. He gasps at the hard length that presses against him.

He’s no better, not really. The want is no longer a subtle stirring, satisfied to reside in the background. Now it’s an inferno that burns through his veins as his hips push forward. Hob groans, one hand dropping to Dream’s waist, and Dream relishes the slight pain of Hob’s too-tight grip. The sharpness of blunt nails digging into his skin through his button-down.

“Not—fuck, love, not here.”

“Then where?” and is that really Dream’s voice, a low rumble full of desire and need?

“I have a flat upstairs.”

Dream nods fervently, and Hob takes the lead. He stops only for them to wash their hands in the sink. Then his fingers twine with Dream’s, and he leads the way to a staircase in the back of the kitchen. Dream stumbles in his rush to follow, and Hob is there. He steadies Dream but continues on without word. Dream understands—he can’t speak, either, not through the dizzying rush of arousal that spikes as Hob strips off his shirt before they’ve even reached the door to his flat.

A long scar stretches across one shoulder, from the curve of his throat down to the base of bone. Dream yearns to touch it, to touch every part of Hob’s body and worship it as a supplicant before a god. He aches to know everything there is about this man, and damn it, he’s already too far gone for Hob.

It’s the same story as before, as it was with Calliope: He fell too fast then, and look what happened. But he can’t stop himself from watching a car-crash from Hell that is a relationship destined to meet a fiery demise.

“Are you sure?” Hob murmurs as he turns to face Dream, reaching around him to close the door.

“I… I want. You.” More than I can say, more than is advisable.

Hob’s groan echoes in the silence between them, and he tugs Dream in against his chest. They share breaths for a moment before Hob kisses Dream softly, slowly, and Dream bites back a plea for more. Devour me once again. Let me be yours if only for a moment. Destroy me if you must, but please give me this.

He ignores the decorations around him, the open curtains over the window, the way the moonlight spreads across the floor, everything but the bed and the way Hob still kisses him so sweetly.

Hob pulls away long enough to ask, “How do you want to do this?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Hey, no worries, love. We’ll figure it out together, okay? Have you… Have you ever been with a man before?”

“Once, before I met my ex-wife.”

Hob pauses, head tilting, and Dream wonders if he’s made a misstep. Will Hob force him to leave now that he has spilled something so personal? Something that points to his failure at maintaining relationships?

But no. Hob is kissing him again; his smile dances across Dream’s lips. “Well, then. Let me remind you of how great it can be.”

“You are rather confident,” Dream pants as Hob’s hands make quick work of unbuttoning his shirt.

Hob only laughs and shoves the button-down out of the way. Dream shivers once his skin is exposed, a chill that quickly fades under the heat in Hob’s eyes. The fire in his hands as he strokes his palms across the pale flesh. With a devilish grin that weakens Dream’s knees, Hob leans forward to press his lips to Dream’s throat. Dream gasps at the scrape of teeth across his jugular, the drag of thumbs against his nipples.

A strong arm wraps around his waist, and his hands flutter aimlessly before they cling to Hob’s shoulders. Hair rubs against his smooth skin, and he bites back a whine at the sensation. Hob shifts his attention from Dream’s throat to his lips, the hand still stroking Dream’s chest slipping around to splay across his back.

“Should we take this to the bedroom,” Hob begins, “or should I take you right here?”

Moving away from Hob sounds like a dreadful idea. The thought of parting and not feeling the strength in Hob’s body against his own sends a shudder down Dream’s spine, and his hands press more firmly against Hob’s skin.

Hob chuckles and nips at Dream’s lower lip. “Here it is, then. Bedroom later.”

Yes. Please. Dream barely thinks the words—the plea—before Hob’s hand is undoing the button of his slacks. Cool air slides along the heated skin of his cock; Dream shivers and arches into the fingers that suddenly wrap around him.

“That’s a good love,” murmurs Hob when Dream lets out a low, needy sound, his head falling back to hit the wall. “And just think, I’ve not truly gotten started yet.”

Dream watches as Hob lowers himself to his knees, hands reverently pulling Dream’s slacks further down his thighs, then inhales sharply when Hob takes him into his mouth without warning. Dream can’t stop himself—he’s wanted to touch, to feel the softness of Hob’s hair, since the moment he laid eyes on the man, and now he can. So he does. His fingers tangle in the loose strands of hair that have fallen from the bun, and Hob hums quietly. Dream gives an experimental tug only to let out a “Ah!” of surprise when Hob yanks him even closer. His cock slips further into Hob’s throat, and Dream feels his thighs begin shaking already.

Hob’s hands slide from Dream’s arse to his hips, pushing and pulling until Dream moves on his own. His hips slip forward in abortive little thrusts, and a moan slips from his lips when he looks down to where his cock is disappearing between lips stretched around his shaft. Hob glances up through tear-clumped lashes, colour high on his cheeks, and Dream loses control.

He tugs on Hob’s hair, holds him still as he fucks into the warm, willing mouth. He spills a release when Hob lets out a strangled sound, the most beautiful noise Dream has heard in so long; his knees nearly buckle when he feels Hob swallowing around his cock.

Hob may look amazing at work, covered in the evidence of his job, but Dream finds he’s more beautiful on his knees.

Dream breathes heavily, rapidly, while Hob clambers to his feet once more. Hob wraps his hand around the back of Dream’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss so soft, so at odds with the way he’d manhandled Dream so roughly. The taste of himself on Hob’s tongue elicits a strange sort of want.

“That was not part of tonight’s plan, just so you know,” Hob announces once they part, chuckling as he runs his thumb over Dream’s lower lip. “I’m not complaining, though.”

Dream swallows thickly and realises belatedly his hand is still tangled in Hob’s hair. He releases the strands and lets his hand drop to Hob’s shoulder.“Nor am I.”

“So…”

“I believe,” Dream says after a moment in which Hob falls awkwardly silent, “we were going to the bedroom now.”

Hob’s shoulders lose their tension, his body slumping slightly, and he gives Dream a cocky smile. It looks out of place on his face—so full of kindness and joy and affection—but Dream drinks in the sight anyway. Hob wraps an arm around Dream’s waist and begins walking backwards; Dream manages to not stumble over the slacks still around his thighs as he steers them toward a door through which he can see a bed with the bedsheets pulled back.

The sight brings a small smile to his face.

They don’t speak as Hob retrieves a condom from the bedside table, nor as they divest themselves of their clothes, though neither man takes their eye off the other. The instant Hob’s second sock hits the floor, he has Dream pulled in against his chest, and he’s kissing him like the world might end. Dream returns the same fervour, the same heat and need and desire wrapped into a tight ball beneath his sternum.

With each stroke of Hob’s tongue against his own, the fire fans higher, blows out of proportion until Dream feels he could burn to ashes. He could burn, and nary a care would he have. He would beg on bended knee for the chance to fall to destruction at the hands of this man who has already turned him inside-out. It’s far too soon—Dream has always done too much too fast—but he would plead for the opportunity to have his heart broken by Hob. This night would be enough, is enough, to make it worth it.

He loses all sense of himself, of time and reality. Dream is little more than speckles of galaxy witnessing the birth of a nebula, caught in the brilliance bursting forth. He’s surrounded by warmth and care, hands holding him steady as his body stretches and relaxes and opens so easily. There’s a beauty in the action, something Dream can never explain. He forces his eyes to open so he can look directly at the sun beneath him.

Hob stares back with pupils blown wide. His fingers press against Dream’s skin, nails scratching lightly as Dream rises then lowers, filling himself with Hob’s cock until he no longer knows where he ends and Hob begins. He rests his hands on Hob’s chest, feels the man’s heartbeat beneath his palms, and whimpers at the gentleness with which Hob thrusts upward into him.

“You—you are so amazing,” Hob whispers, hand coming up to cup Dream’s cheek. “Fucking wonderful, so beautiful, and I don’t know how I got so lucky to know you.”

Dream can’t speak, so he does the next best thing: He ducks his head to kiss Hob, pouring into it everything he wishes to say. He aches to tell Hob that this is the first time he’s felt so at ease with someone, that this is the quickest he’s ever fallen for anyone and it absolutely terrifies him. He’s petrified but unable to stop it. These feelings are a train barrelling toward him at high speed while he watches it rush nearer. Hob might be bruised and battered when this ends, but Dream will be broken.

Again.

And he isn’t sure he can pick up the pieces a second time.

For now, he thinks as he watches the emotions play across Hob’s face, for now… He will enjoy this as much as possible, as long as possible.

His hands slide across the expanse of Hob’s chest, feels the tickle of hair against his palms, and lets out a soft moan at the grip Hob still has on his hip. The way it grows infinitesimally, impossibly tighter as Hob’s control reaches the end of its tether.

“Love…”

“Please.”

Hob nods with a sharp smile before his left hand falls from Dream’s cheek. He holds onto Dream with a reverence that belies the fervour with which he suddenly fucks up into Dream. There is no tenderness but still so much care, and Dream finds his breaths punched out of him with each thrust. His fingers curl instinctively, tugging at the hair on Hob’s breast, and his head falls back as he drowns in the sensations filling him as surely as Hob does.

The movements grow rougher, more erratic, and Dream can find no embarrassment as he reaches for his cock. A small puddle of precum rests on Hob’s abdomen where Dream has leaked steadily since this began. He wraps his fingers around his shaft, immediately stroking himself in time with Hob’s thrusts, and reaches forward with his free hand to press his thumb against Hob’s bottom lip. Hob’s lips part instantly, and he sucks the digit into his mouth, laving it with his tongue.

“You say I am amazing,” Dream manages between pants, “but you’ve no idea of yourself, do you?”

“Tell me then,” Hob says, words muffled by Dream’s thumb.

So Dream does. Within each punched-out, rapturous word is the truth of what Dream sees: A skilled baker. A kind, intelligent, generous, caring man. Someone who is highly attractive in more ways than just his appearance, though, as Dream says, he finds no fault with the way Hob looks. He doesn’t say the most important thing, however. He keeps it to himself, terrified of the way it might ruin everything.

Hob surges upwards, capturing Dream’s lips with his own, and pulls him more roughly into the thrusts. It’s awkward, uncoordinated, clumsy and graceless and everything that shouldn’t be right. Dream comes seconds later with his cock trapped between their bodies, hand still moving furiously over his length, and Hob lets out a breathless chuckle when Dream whines into the kiss.

It isn’t long before Hob finds his own release. Dream closes his eyes as Hob’s hips slow, as he slowly, carefully, falls back against the pillows and brings Dream down with him. His cock slips free, causing Dream to wince, but neither man moves. It should be awkward, Dream thinks, to cuddle like this. To lie atop another man instead of side-by-side. But Hob’s arms hold him in place, fingers trailing lightly over his skin, and he doesn’t want to seek out the wherewithal to pull away.

Eventually, he must. He carefully rolls off of Hob and stares at the ceiling. Warm lips press to his collarbone, then Hob leaves him where he lies. When he comes back, he has a washcloth in hand and the used condom is nowhere to be found. Dream rolls over at Hob’s insistence, shivering when warm fingers hold his arsecheeks apart. He bites down on his lower lip to muffle his whimper at the drag of cloth against his hole. Hob freezes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am… more than okay,” Dream replies, and Hob’s sigh gusts across Dream’s exposed skin.

“Good. I was, well, I was hoping I hadn’t hurt you.” There comes a wet splat, then Hob is curling up beside Dream. “I meant it, by the way. That you’re amazing.”

“You’ve not known me for longer than a week.”

“Ah, but I’ve seen you every day for three months.”

“You cannot know someone merely by—”

“We also went on a date, so unless you were lying about an awful lot, I think I know you well enough to determine whether you’re amazing or not.”

“I haven’t lied,” says Dream quietly.

“Then you’re amazing.”

Hob says it so decisively, as if there is no reason to argue. As if he can’t find a reason why anyone would want to. Dream could cry with the relief that someone doesn’t view him as broken, as an abject failure. However, he can’t deny the terror at the fact Hob can’t see him as the flawed, shattered man Dream knows he is.

Minutes tick past. Each one moves more quickly than the one before it, until the clock reads half-eleven and Dream is trying to figure out the best way to ask Hob for a lift home. He supposes he could get a rideshare, but he hates those. He only does it when there is no other choice. Maybe Hob—

“Stay.”

Dream tenses up, eyes widening, at Hob’s sudden plea because it isn’t just a word. It isn’t a command. It’s a plea, an entreaty for more of Dream’s time. This is Hob coming close to begging, and oh, how Dream longs to stay. He wants to fall asleep in someone’s arms and wake to the sight of their sleeping face in the morning. He aches to sleep in a bed no longer empty beside him.

But…

He can’t have that. Not this soon. Moving too fast is dangerous. Damn it, though, he wants. He wants this, and he wants to be selfish. He wants to take and take, as much as he can, and have no qualms about doing so.

Dream wants but has no idea how to get.

He wakes to an empty bed, cheerful whistling, and the sound of what Dream will always recognise as a coffeepot clattering against its metal hotplate. Frowning, he rolls over and scrubs a hand over his face as he listens to Hob’s whistling become singing, pitched low, ostensibly to not wake him. Dream can’t help but smile at that.

Someone cares enough to ensure he gets enough sleep. Someone cares.

He pushes himself to sit up as footsteps near the bedroom. Hob stops in the doorway with two mugs in hand. Dream’s cheeks burn as he lets his gaze rake along Hob’s body from head to toe, cataloging every inch of bare skin he hadn’t memorised the night before. He can see the tail-end of the scar on Hob’s shoulder, a thin sliver of pink-silver that draws his attention in. Dream vaguely remembers running a finger along that very scar just last night, he remembers the way Hob had shivered under the touch.

“I woke you up.”

Dream shrugs inelegantly and, despite his best efforts, lets his gaze drop to Hob’s groin. Coughing quietly, he forces himself to meet Hob’s eye, flushing when he sees the other man staring back, one brow raised knowingly. Hob approaches the bed slowly, but Dream doesn’t look again. If he does…

He clears his throat once more. “You did, but it was a pleasant wake-up.” Better than I have had in so long. “I have no complaints.”

“Careful, it’s hot,” Hob warns as he passes over a mug decorated with tiny chef hats. He sits, reclines against the headboard beside Dream, and continues, “I’ve closed the bakery for today. Nephew’s party and all.”

Right. The nephew. Whose birthday is today, which is why the date last night got postponed.

Until it wasn’t.

Dream nods before setting his mug on the nightstand. He stretches his arms over his head, extending his legs as far as they will go, until his spine lets out the tension it’s been holding onto in his sleep. The blankets slip further down, and Hob lets out a strangled sound. Dream barely turns his head when Hob is pressing closer, lips finding Dream’s jawline with ease. Gasping quietly, Dream tilts his head and keens as Hob drags his teeth along the column of exposed throat.

“You are utterly gorgeous,” Hob groans before throwing a leg over Dream’s thighs.

“So you’ve said.”

Hob huffs out a laugh and pulls back enough to look Dream in the eye. “Actually, I think my exact word use was ‘beautiful’.”

“Are they not synonyms?” Dream shakes his head, wraps his hand around the back of Hob’s neck, and says “Never mind, just kiss me” before drawing Hob in to do exactly that.

It’s awkward, should be gross considering they both have morning breath, but Dream doesn’t care. He can’t care. So he lets his free hand trail along Hob’s back, his other hand remaining where it is holding Hob still, and kisses Hob back as vehemently as Hob kisses him. Dream’s fingernails dig into the slightly soft curve where Hob’s lower back meets his arse. Hob moans, hips jerking forward.

“Fuck me.”

“As you wish,” Dream murmurs back.

Hob doesn’t move but to rut against Dream’s leg, precum smearing against bare skin, but eventually, he gathers the wherewithal to straddle Dream’s waist. He leans to his left to reach for the lubricant that still sits on the nightstand. Dream takes the bottle from him before pushing at Hob’s shoulder—the one bearing the end of the scar. His thumb brushes the raised skin, and Hob shudders even as he slips to the side, rolling onto his belly at Dream’s command.

Dream runs a hand over the back of Hob’s thigh, fingers scratching through the hair until Hob lets out a soft whimper. He opens beautifully, Dream thinks, and he feels like heaven when Dream finally pushes into him a few minutes later. Warmth grips his cock tightly, and he has to hold himself still for a long moment or this will end before it begins.

Dream has never done this, not with a man. He was always the one being fucked, not the other way around. Alex had said it was inappropriate for someone of his standing to have a cock in his arse. As if Dream was lesser, for his name and for ever being the bottom. It never mattered how much Dream asked for the roles to be reversed. It never happened, and Alex ended up breaking up with him for requesting it too many times.

Two weeks later, Dream found out Alex fell into bed with some bloke named Paul. They’re still together, as far as Dream knows. Perhaps Paul doesn’t have as much a problem with being fucked instead of the other way around.

But now… Now Dream is finding out how wonderful it is to be on this end.

Dream drapes himself along Hob’s back, elbows resting on the mattress on either side of the man beneath him, and Hob’s moans break free. They crackle in the air with each thrust; Dream leaves wet kisses to the scar as his hips undulate slowly, carefully. Hob’s body clings to his cock, and he can scarcely hold onto his control.

Hob begins pleading for more, voice desperate and broken, and Dream obliges. How could he do anything else? He bites sharply at the back of Hob’s neck before pulling out. Hob whines but allows Dream to manhandle him onto his hands and knees. Dream hurriedly pushes back into the tight heat and lets his control lapse. Hob wants this, so Dream will give it to him. His nails dig into Hob’s hips as he fucks into his partner more earnestly.

His hand find Hob’s cock easily; it's hard, leaking, and Hob all but shouts when Dream wraps his fingers around the shaft. He comes within three thrusts, three strokes, and Dream lets out a soft noise of need as Hob clenches around him. It doesn’t take long before Dream is spilling into the condom, hips pressed to Hob’s arse and body tense as a bowstring.

He folds himself over Hob, presses his damp forehead to Hob’s sweat-slick spine, and breathes rapidly as he comes back to himself. With a long, low groan, he finally pulls out of Hob and flops to lie beside him as Hob drops to the mattress. Hob reaches over, arm fumbling until it rests across Dream’s stomach.

“You are a menace,” he rasps out, and Dream scoffs.

“Hardly. Have you met yourself? I stood no chance against seeing you holding a mug of coffee for me.”

“Oh? It wasn’t the nudity?”

“It certainly helped,” Dream concedes imperiously, grinning when Hob laughs.

“Well, I’ll be naked for you whenever you want.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

The pair falls silent for a few minutes. The peaceful quiet is broken by Hob clearing his throat. Dream’s heart races when he sees the expression on Hob’s face. He can’t read it beyond the seriousness it holds.

“I have to ask. Ex-wife?”

Dream sighs and turns his head to stare at the ceiling. Of course Hob would bring this up. He deserves to know the truth, though, especially if Dream wants this relationship to work—if ‘relationship’ is what he can call what he and Hob are doing. Finally, he finds the words and speaks them aloud.

“Yes. Ex-wife. She… She left me three years ago.”

“Oh, love, I’m—I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m sure it sucks hearing it. But I will say that absolutely sucks, and she doesn’t know what she’s missing out on.”

“But she does, Hob.” Dream pushes Hob’s arm away and sits up. “She knew me better than you do now, and she knew what she was giving away. She knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t me.”

Hob reaches out carefully to grasp at Dream’s hand. “From where I stand, you’re worth sticking around for.”

“You know nothing.”

“Then let me.”

“What time does your nephew’s party start?”

Hob accepts the change in topic, rolling over to check the clock. Dream twitches at the loud curse and the way Hob scurries out of bed.

“Oh, Alice is going to kill me.”

“Are you late?”

“By half an hour, yes. I’m, fuck, I’m sorry, but—”

Dream shakes his head and climbs off the bed. His clothes are spread across the floor, kicked out of the way as he and Hob had made their way to the bed, and he quickly gathers them up. Hob ducks into his closet; the sound of hangers clacking together fills the air, and Dream listens to the low mutterings as he begins dressing.

His thoughts tumble around each other. The night had been amazing, better than Dream could have predicted, but… Is this the end? Has Hob gotten what he wanted and is ready to say goodbye? Or is Dream lucky enough to have this to hold onto for a while longer?

He barely suppresses his snort. ‘Lucky’. There are few times in life during which Dream is lucky. Finding Lucienne, he had been lucky. He is lucky to have Thana and Del as sisters, even Desi as a sibling. He is lucky to have his career and his own agency.

He is lucky to have found Hob.

But to keep him? That is not guaranteed, and it frightens Dream that he can feel this strongly after so little time.

“Okay, I’ve just got to brush my teeth. Mind help—Dream?”

Dream realises with a start that he’s been standing stockstill with one leg in his slacks and button-down hanging open. He shakes his head and hurries to dress properly. Hob tilts his head and approaches slowly.

“Where were you?”

“I was just thinking,” replies Dream, unable to voice his concerns. His fears. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Hob leans forward to kiss Dream gently. “If you’re sure. Like I said, I have to brush my teeth, then I’ll be ready to go. Would you be okay with helping put the food in my car?”

“Of course.”

“You’re amazing,” Hob breathes with a soft smile before he turns and disappears into the bathroom.

Am I amazing enough for you to stay?

Hob gives him a lift home, presses his lips to the back of Dream’s hand, and waits until Dream is at the door before driving away. Dream watches him go, heart sinking in his chest. Scowling, he vows to get over this. To lessen the intensity of his feelings for the other man. Too much, too fast, will only push Hob away.

Dream spends the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday ruminating over the night he spent with Hob. Hob doesn’t phone, and Dream doesn’t, either. What would he do if he did only to hear Hob tell him it’s time for goodbye? The longer he goes without hearing from Hob, the more convinced Dream is that one incredible date and one night is all he’ll ever get.

He asks Lucienne to skip the bakery on Monday.

Thana invites him for lunch, and Dream unwillingly goes. He knows she’ll ask after Hob, about how the two are doing, and he has no idea how to answer. If he admits his fears, she’ll try to reassure him. If he tries to lie, she’ll see right through him. But none of this stops him from joining her for a meal a street away.

“How long until you have to get back to work?” she asks as they exit the bistro.

“I have no pressing matters, and Lucienne can handle whatever comes up.”

“Good. I’m in the mood for some coffee.”

“Thana, no.”

“Thana, yes.” His sister glances sideways at him, nudging him with her shoulder. “I want to meet this Hob fellow.”

“It’s… It’s too soon for him to meet any of my family. Besides…”

“Besides, you’re overthinking it and worried he no longer wants to see you because you most likely slept together by this point, and you think so little of him that you’d assume he is finished with you now that he’s had a quick fuck?”

“Thana.”

“Dream, listen to me. He sounds like a genuinely nice bloke. Luce and I talk,” she says briskly in response to his questioning look. “He got you to try a new type of food. He made you happy, I could hear it in your voice on the phone. So why think so much of the wrong things?”

“I don’t think little of him,” he protests, but his sister is right.

If he thought more of Hob, he wouldn’t have such deep fears that Hob will leave. He wouldn’t assume it’s an inevitability. So Dream sighs, accepts Thana’s gentle admonishment, and follows her to her car. The drive to the bakery is filled with music from the Cure and his sister singing along to Boys Don’t Cry. Dream joins in for Pictures of You.

Only Johanna is up front today. She raises a brow at the sight of Dream and Thana then disappears into the back. When she comes back, Hob is in tow. He stops a foot away from the counter, and Dream hates the distance between them. He loathes the expression on Hob’s face.

“Hello, Hob.”

“Hi. The usual?”

“I—Yes, but—”

Hob moves toward the display case, easily pulling out a muffin. Dream frowns when he notices it’s the smallest one. He steps closer to the counter and reaches out to brush his fingertips across the back of Hob’s wrist. His heart drops when Hob pulls away.

“Hi, you must be Hob.” Thana smiles her bright ‘I’m so happy to be meeting you’ smile that has always helped her make friends.

“That I am.”

“I’m Thana. I’m sure Dream’s told you absolutely nothing about me, though as his elder sister, he really should have. I’m his favourite.”

Dream scowls. “You are not. Del is.”

“Oh, she’ll be so pleased to hear that!”

“So you’re his sister,” Hob says slowly, gaze flicking between Dream and Thana.

“Unfortunately for him, yes. Oh, those scones look fantastic. Can I have one of them?”

“Of—of course?”

Hob hurries to wrap the scone and muffin, though Dream is confused to see it’s now a larger one. When had Hob exchanged them, and why? Thana rolls her eyes as if she is able to read his mind, leaning over to whisper a single word: “Jealousy.”

Something warm flares to life beneath his breastbone. Hob was jealous. Calliope was hardly the jealous type; only a handful of times had she said or done anything to show any sort of envy. But Hob… Hob is exposing that side of him after so little time.

Dream hesitates when Hob passes over the flat white, then he wraps fingers around Hob’s wrist and pulls him closer. Hob’s eyes light up, and he closes the distance to press his lips to Dream’s. Dream tenses—it’s such a public display of affection, and Thana and Johanna are right there watching—but then he melts into the kiss. It’s incredibly short, chaste, and perfect as it is. It’s reassurance that Hob doesn’t even know Dream needs.

“I’ll phone you tonight,” Hob promises, an apology in his voice, and Dream can only nod. Hob turns to Thana with a brilliant smile. “It was wonderful to meet you.”

“You, too. Thank you for making my baby brother happy,” she says quietly, leaning forward so Hob can hear her.

“It’s a very selfish act, I promise you.”

Thana’s laugh fills the space long after she leaves Dream at the counter, heading outside with her scone and mocha. He sighs and turns back to Hob.

“I should go. She is my way back to work.”

Hob nods and glances down at where Dream still holds his wrist. Unfolding his fingers, Dream reluctantly lets go of Hob, lets the contact fade to nothingness. He hesitates before gathering up his coffee and muffin, heading toward the door. The bell chimes overhead, and Dream hates how cheery it sounds.

Thana waits in the driver’s seat of her car by the time Dream joins her. On her face is a grin that doesn’t bode well for him. She draws in a deep breath then lets loose.

“Dream, you said he was attractive. You said nothing about him being gorgeous in that kinda rugged, boy next door type of way. And he really is so nice! And you let him kiss you in front of everybody. You really are falling for him, aren’t you? Do you still worry he wants nothing to do with you now that you’ve slept together? I know you did, judging by that bruise on the back of his neck. I—”

“Bruise?”

Oh, no. If there is a mark, then that means Hob went to his nephew’s birthday party with the evidence of a love-bite. His sister must have noticed. Dream only hopes it wasn’t as embarrassing for Hob as it is for Dream now. He lets his muffin fall to his lap and covers his face with one hand.

“Dream?”

“He had an event to attend on Saturday.”

“And… Oh, you slept with him on Friday which is when he got that hickey.”

“Yes.”

“Well, he didn’t seem bothered by it.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know.”

Thana’s teeth gleam in the sunlight pouring in through the windscreen. Her amusement is a heavy weight on Dream’s skin, and she shrugs slightly. “Sorry, baby brother, but there is no way he’s gone this long without someone pointing it out.”

Dream groans, letting his head fall back, and squeezes his eyes closed as his sister laughs.

Lucienne wisely doesn’t ask about the furious heat in Dream’s cheeks that lingers even after Thana has driven away. She only says that Burgess phoned again.

“Sir… I’m growing worried for your safety. He is becoming increasingly more volatile.”

“He is little more than a petulant child too accustomed to getting his way,” Dream says dismissively. “There is no need to be concerned.”

“If you’re sure.”

She doesn’t sound convinced, but she doesn’t argue. So Dream heads into his office, closing the door behind him, and drops to sit in his chair. Hob’s sister saw the mark on Hob’s neck. Does she know about Dream? Does she know that Hob is even attracted to men? Would she approve of this relationship, or would she demand Hob choose between family and partner?

You’re letting yourself borrow worries.

Dream sighs and runs a long finger over the cover of the next manuscript. The letters swim out of focus as he recalls the kiss Hob gave in the bakery. It was far more public than Dream has ever been comfortable with, but he doesn’t regret it. In fact, he’d do it again if only to reassure Hob there is no reason to be jealous.

Although Hob’s jealousy was rather appreciated.

With another deep exhale, Dream forces his attention to his career and not the man who’s quickly stealing real estate in his mind.

Before Dream knows it, an entire month has passed, and he and Hob have gone on a handful of dates. They began staying in by the third week, the sixth date; they’d start by watching films or talking over a home-cooked dinner, then end up in bed before the clock struck ten.

It was perhaps the most natural he’s felt in a relationship since… ever. Even Calliope hadn’t felt quite right until month seven.

Dream smiles at Johanna as she pulls the door open for him. She gives him her customary smirk, yells out to ‘Hobsie’, then ducks past Dream with a knowing “Have fun, boys.”

“Don’t worry, we will.”

Her footsteps falter, and she slowly turns to face Dream. He doesn’t acknowledge the flush to his cheeks at his words—he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, but she hardly seems to mind. In fact, she looks almost proud that he’s spoken up. With a grin that’s more real than any she has given before, Johanna waves and turns again, striding briskly away.

Dream enters the bakery, flipping the sign to Closed and locking the door, before making his way behind the counter. Hob glances up from where he’s rolling out croissant dough, and his face splits with the force of his smile. Dream lets himself be warmed by the intensity then perches on the stool that’s become a staple in the kitchen. Just for him.

The thought fills Dream with something beautiful.

“Jo seems to like you.”

Dream rests his elbow on the metal countertop, his chin in his upturned palm. “Jo likes nobody.”

“Not true,” Hob protests with a laugh. “She’s just… particular about who she spends time with.”

“Why do you say she likes me?”

“Because she asks how we’re doing. In her own roundabout way, of course. And Johanna Constantine doesn’t ask about just anybody.”

“I am flattered to know she cares even a modicum about me.”

Hob finishes the dough, disappearing into the industrial refrigerator, then emerges a moment later. He wipes his hands on a towel before approaching Dream. He cradles Dream’s cheeks and stares at him for a moment. His hands have a thin layer of greasiness to them, but Dream ignores it in favour of accepting the kiss Hob bestows upon him.

“I’m so glad to see your face,” Hob grumbles against Dream’s lips. “Come upstairs with me.”

“How romantic,” Dream teases even as his hand drifts along the breadth of Hob’s shoulders, down his spine.

“I don’t mean to fuck. Well, not only that. I have something for you.”

“Lead the way.”

Dream follows Hob up the stairs, brows drawn together. His blood buzzes, and his mind races. What could Hob have for him? He’s already given so much. Dream still has the bookmark pressed between the pages of Poe’s collected works. He has Hob’s painting still hanging on his bedroom wall, across from where Dream sleeps so he can see it whenever he goes to bed. He has Hob’s jumpers and a throw blanket that doesn’t belong to himself draped over the back of his couch.

More importantly, Dream has Hob’s time and affection. Devotion. And there is no greater wish granted than that.

He comes to an abrupt stop just inside Hob’s flat. On the kitchen counters are trays of cupcakes and croissants, sticky buns and danishes, muffins and biscuits. Dream frowns and glances at Hob who shifts his weight between his feet.

“You… Now, I don’t mind, necessarily, but you always order the same thing. I figured why not try something else without an entire bakery full of people watching you.”

“This is—this is too much.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Hob. It really is.” Dream sighs and stares at the baked goods. “I…”

“Dream?”

The words come out in a rush, tumbling and freewheeling and full of a desperate desire to stay within him: “I don’t. Eat. Often, like most people do. I don’t make choices on what I eat when I force myself.”

“Who does?” Hob asks after a slight pause.

“Lucienne or Thana. Sometimes Del, but if I left it up to her, I would eat nothing but cereal every day.”

“So you, what, have an eating disorder?”

Something snarls deep in Dream’s chest at the words. Eating disorder. As if two words could encapsulate his struggles. His hatred. But what better words are there? Dream swallows down the shame and nods slowly, one dip of his chin. Hob crosses his arms over his chest; Dream fights the urge to cower in on himself, to hide away from the judgement.

“You’ve eaten dinner with me plenty of times.”

“I can’t… I can’t explain it. I don’t know why it’s easier. With you.”

“Well, if you ever feel I’m pushing you too hard to eat and you can’t, let me know so I can kick my own arse.”

Dream’s head snaps up quickly enough that his neck twinges. Hob watches him calmly, arms still folded across his chest, but there’s nothing on his face to say he’s disgusted with Dream for the admission. Or himself for the offer.

It’s an offer no one has ever made before.

“Do you think you could try some of these? Don’t worry about saying no. I’m donating whatever is left to Jo’s class.” At Dream’s raised brow, Hob huffs out a laugh. “She’s a half-day preschool teacher.”

“I did not expect that,” Dream says slowly, lips twitching when Hob chuckles again.

“She’ll be thrilled to know that. So. Can you?”

Dream looks from Hob to the treats waiting. He wants to—they all look amazing, and he’s certain they taste just as delicious as they look—but he isn’t sure. His stomach lets out a distinct rumble, one that means he can eat and be fine or he can eat and get sick.

But Hob went through all the trouble of making a variety of baked goods just for Dream to sample. The least Dream can do is try. Maybe it won’t be as bad as he fears. So he nods and hates himself a little less under the weight of Hob’s smile.

Over the next hour, the pair sits on the couch and works their way steadily through the food. Hob is more than willing to accept a single bite of each, to listen to Dream’s opinions on every bite. To take those opinions seriously and even write down any notes Dream might have for changes to the recipe. To brush his thumbs under Dream’s eyes when the tears start falling.

Dream can’t anymore. He can’t do it, and there is still so much left untouched.

“Okay, we’re done, love.”

“But there—”

“There is nothing else you need to force yourself to sample just to make me happy.” Hob winds an arm around Dream’s waist and hauls him into his lap. “You being here is enough to make me happy, and I hate that you thought you had to push yourself so hard just so I wouldn’t be upset.”

“You spent so much time,” Dream mumbles as he wipes at his cheeks. Pathetic, the voice in his head snaps. Absolutely pathetic and worthless. A waste of anyone’s time.

“I would’ve done anyway. Love, I said I was planning on donating to Jo’s class, yeah? There is nothing going to waste. Now come here.”

“I don’t—”

“I just want to cuddle, my dream. That’s all.”

Cuddles. The voice in his head grumbles but doesn’t speak up. Cuddles are acceptable, even for pathetic, worthless wastes of space.

After half an hour, Dream clambers awkwardly to his feet and motions toward the baked goods. Hob nods, and they work in silence to wrap everything and place it carefully in boxes. Dream hesitates by the front door when they finish; he doesn’t want to go, but he’s made enough of a fool of himself tonight. Hob should be able to have a reprieve from knowing Dream is such a mess.

“May I stay?”

Hob’s eyes widen, lips stretching into a soft smile. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

Hob bought a toothbrush for Dream, he notices when he goes to use the toilet. The black-handled toothbrush hangs in the holder beside the purple one that Dream knows is Hob’s. Dream stares at the closed door for a moment, imagining what Hob looks like now as he prepares for bed. Has he already changed his clothes, or will he sleep naked tonight? Is he already in bed, waiting for Dream?

My dream.

The words nearly knock Dream to his knees. As it is, he clutches the edges of the sink and closes his eyes, breathing unsteadily. He’s no one’s dream. Not Thessaly’s, not Alex’s, not Calliope’s. Hob may think otherwise, but it’s fact that Dream is hardly something anyone could ever want for long. The one with Calliope was his longest relationship, at four years, and even she grew tired of him.

He swallows down the tears and does his business; brushing his teeth feels like a religious experience, one he covets more than any moment he spent in a church. Once done, he blows out a breath and stares at his reflection in the mirror.

He hardly recognises himself anymore. The haunting in his eyes has faded, and his lips are quicker to smile, small though they are. There’s something beneath his skin, something visible to him, something that begs to be loved. He hopes Hob loves him, because he’s stupidly fallen in love with the man.

No, not stupidly. There is no one better for Dream to have found. Hob is patient, understanding, generous to a fault. He hasn’t judged Dream for anything, and he’s been so willing to change plans at Dream’s discretion. No. Hob is… Hob is as close to perfect as a human can get.

“Get lost, did you?” Hob asks when Dream finally joins him in bed.

“Only in thoughts.”

“Anything good?”

Dream purses his lips, scrutinising Hob closely. Nervousness plays in the subtle downturn of his lips, the inability to meet Dream’s eye, the way his fingers pick at a loose thread in the blanket. Dream reaches over to run a finger along Hob’s jawline, brings their lips together.

“They were of you,” he whispers when they part, “and they were wonderful.”

Hob’s relieved smile burns in Dream’s blood, and he holds onto that heat as he shifts closer. He knows he isn’t ready for anything sexual tonight—he’s still shaky from what happened in the living room earlier—but he wants to steal warmth and comfort from Hob, as much as he possibly can before he drains Hob completely.

Hob’s arms wrap around him, and Dream drifts off to the sound of steady breathing and the unwavering heartbeat beneath his ear.

The next morning, he deletes the text message. I’m on my way home now. I love you.

It’s Dream who says it first, only five months into their relationship. He’s doing little more than listening to Hob baking as he normally does on Friday evenings, one hand holding up his head, the other holding up a book. Dream glances away from the words of Chaucer, blinks slowly to clear the letters from his eyes, and watches Hob move about the kitchen like it’s a second home.

He’s an utter mess with flour coating his forearms and T-shirt from an unfortunate accident with the mixer, and his hair is falling from the bun he keeps it in while in the kitchen. Powdered sugar lingers on one cheek and in his eyebrow. His right glove has a tear through which dough has slipped. He whistles under his breath to the song on the radio, head bobbing to the beat.

“I love you.”

Hob’s hands slip, and the rolling pin goes clattering across the countertop. His head stays ducked for a long moment, then he lifts it to stare, wide-eyed, at Dream. Dream swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. Has he ruined everything? He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the words won’t come. The most important ones were already said, and now there’s nothing left.

“Did you just say you love me?” Hob asks quietly, incredulously.

Dream nods and fingers the edge of the cover of his book. Hob stays silent, so silent for too long. Dream starts shifting awkwardly on his stool and averts his gaze. He’s ruined everything. This is the end. He’ll have to say goodbye and deal with all these emotions on his own. He will never have someone be so understanding of his issues with food, and he will have to come to terms with that. He’ll have to—

His thoughts screech to a halt at the lips suddenly on his own. He hadn’t noticed Hob moving, but this is definitely Hob kissing him breathless. As if the world will fly off its axis were they separate. Dream’s book falls to the counter, and he loops his arms around Hob’s waist, tugging him in closer to stand between his spread thighs. Hob plunders and devours, leaves nothing to question.

He doesn’t need to say the words, but he does anyway: “I love you, too. I love you, my dream.”

They make it halfway up the stairs before Hob pushes Dream against the wall and tugs his slacks down, drops to his knees awkwardly on the steps. Dream comes with a bitten-off cry and his fingers buried in Hob’s hair.

It was bound to happen, Dream realises as he stares at the patrons of the bakery, one foot still through the door to the kitchen. Hob’s pyjama bottoms hang dangerously low on his narrow hips, and he holds the hem in one trembling hand. The cool air grazes the bare skin of his torso, goosebumps racing along his flesh. His gaze cuts from the silent onlookers to Johanna. She hides her smile poorly before shooing him away.

Dream doesn’t waste a second—he turns and nearly sprints through the kitchen, up the stairs.

“Love? What happened?” Hob cradles his cheeks with warm hands that smell like bread. “Talk to me.”

“You have a very full bakery downstairs,” is all Dream manages.

Hob swears under his breath and pulls Dream in for a tight embrace. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you that I may be taking the day off, but Jo is running the bakery."

"Yes, a warning would have been nice. Then my assistant would not have seen me in your pyjama bottoms and little else."

“Lucienne was there?” Hob snorts in amusement. “Work should be fun, then.”

Dream pulls away and turns his nose up at the grin on Hob’s face. Hob rolls his eyes, not unkindly, and tugs Dream back in for a kiss. Unfortunately for Dream, it has the exact effect Hob was most likely working for: He relaxes, slumping in against Hob, and lets out a soft sigh as his lips part.

“You do not play fair,” he whispers seconds later, wrenching away at last, and Hob’s chuckle fills the space between them.

“And you should get ready for work before Lucienne decides to leave you here.”

Dream raises a brow and runs his fingertip along Hob’s bottom lip, gaze locked onto the motion. “Would you mind so much? After all, it would mean I was here with you.”

“Yeah?” Hob breathes. “What would we be doing?”

“Whatever you want,” Dream murmurs back as he leans forward a scant inch. Before their lips can touch, he pulls back, drops his hand, and says, “Unfortunately, I do have to work today, so if you will excuse me, I need to ready for the day.”

“You cruel, cruel man!” Hob exclaims as Dream slides past.

Dream’s laugh comes far easier than it ever has before.

As he sits behind his desk later that day, waiting for Lucienne to finish her call so they can go to lunch together, Dream thinks back on the last few months of his life. He’s found what he thought impossible for so long, and it’s all thanks to his assistant for her insistence he try the coffee and pastries at Hob’s. He wonders what gift a person would get another for something like that. What would say “Thank you for bringing about the greatest relationship I’ve been in in years. Thank you for introducing me to the greatest man I’ve ever known and who has shown such love and devotion”?

Dream isn’t sure, and it isn’t like he can ask Lucienne herself. Perhaps he can ask Thana.

He makes a mental note to do just that later then joins Lucienne by the front door. She smiles, sunlight gleaming off her wire-rimmed glasses, and leads him out of the building. They walk in silence for a few minutes before Dream inhales slowly. Steadying himself. Half-turning toward Lucienne, he opens his mouth and speaks.

“I… I realised I have never thanked you for your part in Hob and my meeting.”

“I only brought you to the bakery, sir.”

“If you hadn’t, I would not be in such a wonderful relationship.”

“I’m happy that you are happy, sir. May I say it is a good look on you?”

Dream smiles and ducks his head, but not before he sees the pleased expression on her face. They finish their trek with small talk that no longer feels so confining, so awkward and unwieldy. It may not feel right or easy, but it is no longer the gargantuan task it was before.

He’s just returned to his desk when Desi breezes through his office door. Heels click on the stone floor as they step over the threshold. Desi’s black pantsuit cuts a sharp figure of their body, and their bleached hair haloes around their face. Dream makes a move to protest their presence—he has work, after all, and no time for a social visit—but something in Desi’s amber eyes gives him pause.

They don’t look thrilled about being here. They don’t look as if they want to pester their brother about his love life or even to mock him for having taken so long to actually form one.

No. Desi looks as if they’d rather be anywhere else with anyone else.

They carefully lower themself into the seat across from Dream with a soft sigh. “Have you seen?”

“Seen what?” Dream reaches for the manuscript on top of the pile, frowning at the title. The Meaning of X. He drops the papers back to his desk and glances at his sibling when they don’t respond immediately. “Desi?”

“It’s… You know I don’t actually want to be the one to tell you, right? Just know that. This isn’t fun for me, contrary to past behaviour.”

“Spit it out, Desi. I do not have time for games.”

“Calliope is back in town.”

Dream’s heart stutters, and he ignores the way his skin grows tight. Drawing in a shaky breath, he pretends to give a damn about the next pile of rubbish an author thinks is worth his time. “She is allowed to go wherever she wishes.”

“She’s getting remarried.”

The clock stops. The world stops. Everything screeches to a standstill at Desi’s words. Calliope. Is getting married. Again. He swallows thickly and gives up all pretenses of reading the story someone sent in. Desi blows out a breath and stands, rounding his desk to perch on the edge.

“Dream… I’m sorry.”

“Why would you tell me this? You know—you know—that I am happy with Hob. Why would you bring her up?”

“Because I thought you’d want to know before you run into her on the street and found out that way!”

“Or is it that you hate seeing me happy?” he all but snarls without looking at his sibling. “That you would take that away by reminding me of just how awful love has been to me in the past is cold, even for you.”

Desi rises to their feet and gapes. Finally, they protest, “Dream, I would never!”

“You have before!” he shouts.

And doesn’t it always lead to this. Is it not tradition that he and Desi would be opponents, again and again, until the universe implodes? He thought his sibling had truly changed, but this shows that Desi is the same as they always have been. They are spiteful and manipulative and selfish.

Dream pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and points to the door with the other. “Get out, and do not ever come back. From this moment, we are nothing to each other.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Out!”

Desi stands where they are for a moment longer then storms out of his office. Dream knows it is only the hydraulics of the hinges that prevents Desi from slamming the door behind them. A moment later, the light on his phone blinks, and he exhales sharply.

Business as usual.

Dream manages to get through another call with Burgess—the man is getting quite creative with his threats; if only he could put that imagination to use in his writing—and an argument with a publisher who wants to take on a client’s book with specific conditions. He even survives a terse call with Thana, who admonishes him for being so cold to Desi.

“They were trying to protect you, you dolt.”

“I do not need protecting.”

Thana snorts. “Right. I know even you don’t believe that load of shit. Apologise to Desi, Dream. They did you a favour.”

“They—”

“They did what I asked them to do.”

Thana ends the call before Dream can say a word. After a moment, he sets his cellphone down and closes his eyes, head falling back until it hits the top of his chair. His stomach churns violently, bile rising in his throat, and he barely makes it to the toilet before he’s throwing up.

He slumps against the wall once done, sniffling against the tears though it does no good. They fall anyway; they leave wet tracks on his cheeks as he cries for the relationship he’s just ruined. Desi may have been to blame for their last fight, but this one is all Dream’s fault. He would understand if Desi never forgives him.

He does as Thana ordered him to: He sends Desi a text later that night, as Hob sleeps peacefully beside him.

I behaved poorly. I made accusations that had no basis in reality, and I treated you horribly. I’m incredibly sorry for my behaviour. I understand now that you told me only to protect me from being blindsided by the news. I am sorry beyond words, Desi. I will understand if you wish to no longer speak to me.

Desi (22.01): you are the one who said we were nothing, dream Desi (22.02): i suppose the gracious thing would be to forgive you. but i don’t want to. you jumped to some awful conclusions and i don’t like that it was so easy for you to think so poorly of me. i already apologised for everything i did before. we made up. or was that simply a ruse so thana would leave us alone??? whatever it was, i thought we were past it. i’d HOPED we were past it.

You are right: We did put our petty fighting behind us. I suppose it wasn’t nearly as put away for me as I’d hoped. I am truly ashamed of how I behaved.

Desi (22.06): i’ll get back to you

Dream sighs and sets his phone aside, then turns his head to watch Hob. The man’s chest rises and falls steadily, and his fingers twitch occasionally where his hand rests on his belly. With a deep exhale, Hob rolls onto his side facing away from Dream and begins quietly snoring. Dream huffs out a soft laugh, though the amusement fades.

Calliope is getting remarried. He wonders if she remembers their marriage, when they’d been happy before. Though the man he loves sleeps on beside him, Dream can’t stop imagining how different things would be if she had never left. Would he and Calliope still be happy? Or would they have grown to resent each other for whatever reason? Would they have had children, been deliriously happy with their lots in life? Dream aches for what could have been, despite the present happiness and peace he’s found.

Things come to a head a week later. Lucienne doesn’t bother with the phone; instead, she slips into his office, forcefully closing the door, and turns to face Dream. He raises a brow. She’s hardly ever ruffled like this. She is the cool, calm, collected one. Unflappable. But here she is nearly vibrating with emotion.

“There is… someone here to see you, sir.”

“If it’s Burgess, send him away,” Dream orders as he goes back to the contract on his screen.

“It is not Roderick Burgess. It’s—”

“Dream.”

Dream freezes even as Lucienne bites out, “I asked you to please wait in the lobby. Mister Emrys is—”

“It’s…” Dream clears his throat and tries again. “It’s quite alright, Lucienne. I thank you, but you may leave.”

Lucienne hesitates, and Dream can see the expression on her face without looking at her. Disapproval, anger, but ultimately resignation. She sighs and exits the office. Again, Dream knows the door would be slammed were it possible. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he locks the computer down and swivels in his chair.

Calliope looks much the same as she did three years ago. Her long brown hair is pulled into a loose ponytail that drapes over her shoulder. Her dark eyes watch him carefully, examining his every reaction at her presence, and Dream remembers the taste of her lips. Her teeth glint white as she chews on her lower lip, the only sign of nervousness she will ever show.

“Hi,” she says softly, tucking dainty hands into the back pockets of her jeans. The motion pushes her shoulders back, and he hates the way his gaze skims over her body. The way he notices how her blouse fits her just right. “I think… I think we need to talk.”

Dream shakes his head and stares at his keyboard. The computer monitor. His own hands. Anywhere but at her.“It’s three years too late, Calliope. You only wish to speak to me because you are getting remarried and, what, want some closure for how you left me without warning?”

“Dream—”

“You didn’t even find me worthy of a fucking explanation.”

Her eyes widen at the expletive. Dream would feel shame—would cower under the weight of his father’s reprimands—but all he feels now is rage that she would disrupt his life like this. How can she think it so easy to waltz back into his life, claiming a need to talk, when she wasn’t interested as she upended everything he knew? They had promised each other forever. He had given her everything of who he was.

She doesn’t deserve to know who he is now. Not after what she’s done, after she stole the heart of him. She doesn’t deserve to know who he is now with Hob’s love.

“Dream, please. I—I really think we need to talk.”

Despite the years, despite the pain she’s put him through, despite his resolve, Dream struggles to say no to the pleading in those familiar eyes. He wants to say no so badly, he can taste the word on his tongue, but he can’t. He’s never been able to. So he rises to his feet and follows her out of the office. Lucienne looks up from her computer as Dream passes; her lips press tightly together, and she shakes her head while going back to her work.

“Lucienne—”

“I will do my job, sir, and nothing more.”

Dream blinks against the burning in his eyes. She’s never spoken to him like this, not even when he was at his worst. She has dragged him to his feet many times, speaking firmly, bluntly, but never before has she sounded disgusted with him. Lucienne doesn’t look up again.

He continues toward the door and allows Calliope to lead the way. The walk is silent. He doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to voice the thoughts he’s carried over the years, and she clearly wants to wait for—some reason. He dares not pretend he understands the way her mind works. He thought he knew at one point.

They pass a bakery, and Dream glances at the windows. A large display case takes up space in front of a window, filled with tarts and slices of cake. He breathes in deeply, imagines he can smell the aroma of fresh-baked bread and danishes, buttery croissants. The cooked sugar of cupcakes. He imagines he smells Hob, his cologne, the sweat-slick of his skin as he moves inside of Dream.

Calliope gave him up years ago. Dream only hopes Hob doesn’t do the same.

Dream finds himself coming to a stop outside of a diner three streets away from his office. Calliope stands by the door, scrutinising him closely. Eventually, he steels his spine and follows her inside. He insists on sitting near the door; if this goes poorly, he doesn’t want an audience to his storming out. Or, at the very least, a smaller audience.

“What do you wish to talk about?” he asks once the server comes and goes, brings their coffee then retreats, and she raises her brows.

“I made a mistake.” Dream’s heart skips a beat at the words. She can’t possibly mean—? But no, she seems to read the question on his face, in his eyes, for she shakes her head. “In leaving you like I did, I mean. You’re right. I should have explained. I could have left a note or phoned after the fact or even sat on the couch with you and discussed it like rational adults.”

“Then why did you not?”

“Because,” she sighs, reaching for a menu, though Dream knows it’s only to have something to do with her hands. She always fidgeted when anxious about something. “Because I was a coward. I was afraid you would be able to convince me to change my mind.”

Dream frowns and cocks his head. “If I would have been able to so easily convince you to stay, what made you think it was the right choice?”

“Are you sure you wish to discuss this? It is… unpleasant.”

He nods, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him. She averts her gaze to stare out the window, and he speaks if only to grab her attention once more:

“I have spent the better part of three years asking these questions of myself, Calliope. I believe I deserve answers only you can give.”

Calliope eyes him carefully then sighs, finger tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “I fell in love with a broken man seven years ago. I thought I could fix you, but there was just too much. Too many cracks in your foundation, I suppose.

“You were—you hated your father but were so desperate for his approval. You didn’t speak to anyone for four months after he died, not because you were mourning him, but because he died without giving you the one thing you ever asked of him. Our relationship suffered because of it, and you never saw it. You came back from that period different. Never were you effusive with affection, but at least before, I never doubted your feelings for me.

“And you worked so much. I barely saw you, let alone had a relationship with you. I justified it as you working your way up so you could have a job you were proud of. So you could provide for us. But the hours grew longer, and I grew lonelier. Tell me, do you still work so many hours?

“Then there’s your… issues with food. I begged and pleaded for you to get help for them. You chose not to. You said you had it under control, but I watched you start to wither away. That was the first time I ever gave you an ultimatum—get help, or I was leaving. I knew I would not be able to handle watching that happen again and again because of your stubborn pride. Still, I stayed when you were forced to get treatment or you would die.”

“We were talking of having children, a family,” he hisses, and her face twists up as if in agony. How dare she pretend to feel anything? She didn’t before, when she left him so abruptly, so cruelly.

“I realised I could not have a child with a man I no longer loved. So I left.” Her gaze drops to the depths of her coffee, untouched by her lips though swirling with cream. “I never wanted to hurt you, but I had to think of my own happiness, too.”

His world fades to a pinprick, this point of conversation: I could not have a child with a man I no longer loved.

A text. I’m on my way home now. I love you.

She told him she loved him even when she didn’t. When she knew that love was gone from her heart. She knew he would believe her. Why wouldn’t he, when they seemed so perfect together? She was his guiding light, the one that he worked so hard to provide for. Calliope was the one he would have given up his life for. She was his muse, was the reason he wished to become an author himself.

But those dreams were dashed the second he came home to find her gone. His life was irrevocably changed because of her actions.

“Thana says you’re doing well now,” Calliope says after a long moment. “That you’re even dating someone.”

Something ferocious snarls deep in his chest, yearning to break free and destroy. “You do not get to speak of him.” He’s mine. Mine. Mine.

“I was just making conversation.”

“And he is off-limits, Calliope.”

“How did you know I was getting married again?”

“Desi told me.”

Calliope’s brows lift toward her hairline. “Desi? You’re speaking to them again?”

“Yes.”

“Dream… I would really like to have an actual friendly conversation.”

“And I would have liked you to keep to your vows.” Dream rises abruptly to his feet, knees hitting the underside of the table. Coffee sloshes onto the tabletop, and she lunges for napkins to clean up the mess. He does nothing of the sort. “But as you have shown me, you are incapable of that. Good luck with your marriage. I’ve a feeling you will need it.”

He strides toward the door, stopping only to pay for his coffee at the till, then leaves the diner. He gets a street away before leaning against the side of a building, chest heaving with rapid breaths. His lungs have shrunk, they had to have, for why else would he not be able to breathe properly?

He worked too much. His eating disorder—God, does he hate that phrase, he hates it—was too much for her to handle. He craved his father’s approval. Those were the reasons she fell out of love with him. She was no longer happy because of who he was as a person, and now she’s moved on. He has, too, but…

He hasn’t changed.

He vomits on the ground between his feet, chest tight and throat burning. A sob forces its way out of him as he thinks that same thought over and over, a mantra he can’t stop: He hasn’t changed he hasn’t changed he hasn’t changed he hasn’t changed he hasn’t—

Hob is going to tire of him just as Calliope did. Hob will leave without warning just as Calliope did. Hob will no longer love Dream just as Calliope did, and where will Dream be then?

Dream grasps at his hair with trembling hands, letting the storm rush through him. He knows he looks like a fool right now, crying so hard in an alley with passersby able to gawk, but he can’t stop. Something inside of him cracks, splinters apart. It hasn’t yet ended, and already Dream can feel what’s left of his heart shattering.

Finally, he calms enough to scrub his palms over his eyes. He has work to do. He can’t spend his day weeping over the inevitable like a child. Dream draws in a steadying breath and steps out into the foot-traffic of London.

“Sir!”

“Dream?”

Dream passes by Desi and Lucienne without a spare glance. “I will be in my office. Do not disturb me for any reason.”

“Dream, wait.”

He closes the door in his sibling’s face, swiftly twisting the lock, and makes his way to his desk on weak knees. He pulls his cellphone from the top drawer and unlocks the screen. There are six texts waiting to be read.

Hob (08.22): I hope your day is going well, love. Hob (09.19): Read any good manuscripts today? Hob (09.43): I shouldn’t have taken today off. I’m bored and have already cleaned the entire flat. Hob (09.44): I think I might break into yours and clean it, too. Hob (10.09): Anyway, I’ll let you work. I love you. Hob (11.28: Dream?

Dream hesitates, stares at the messages. “Did you just say you love me?... I love you, too. I love you, my dream.” Pain lances through his chest, and he doubles over seconds later. His phone clatters to the floor, but the screen remains on. The red letters remain visible through his tears.

This contact has been blocked.

He leaves work early without a word to Lucienne, though she calls fruitlessly after him.

The next morning finds him getting into the passenger seat of her car, studiously avoiding any sort of conversation. She tries, but he gives no sign he’s listening. Finally, she sighs.

“I don’t know what is going on, Dream, but I’m here whenever you figure it out.”

Dream. The last time she called him by his name, it had been in an argument over the necessity of him doing an in-patient program. He’d lost weight—too much, according to her, and even he had to agree though he didn’t want to. He was barely able to stand without getting lightheaded, and his clothing hung off his frail frame. He was never hungry, but he was always cold.

“Please, sir. Get help. Allow me to help you. Dream, please,” she had pleaded, tears in her dark eyes as she clasped his hands to her chest.

Dream checked himself in two days later.

Now, he turns his face to the window, closes his eyes, and lets the tear slip free.

When Lucienne stops at Hob’s, Dream doesn’t get out of the car. She comes back with a paper bag and a flat white with caramel. In the bag are a lemon-blueberry muffin and an apple-and-cream cheese danish—one of the few things Dream had tolerated the night Hob baked him a variety of treats to sample.

Lucienne pulls into a supermarket carpark and holds Dream’s hand as he cries.

He works all day with the door closed. She has to use the phone to alert him of any visitors or messages left for him. There are plenty of messages taken and two visitors: Calliope and, at lunchtime, Hob. Dream only claims he’s too busy for a break before putting the receiver back in the cradle.

The doorknob jiggles moments later, but the lock holds steady. As Hob walks away, Dream rests his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. He’s so tired of crying, so exhausted. He wants to feel nothing at all. He wishes he had never met Hob at all. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be sat in his office sobbing over such a beautiful mistake as falling in love with the sun.

Hob comes to Dream’s flat that night, but he receives the same reception as in the office: That is to say, none. Dream lies curled up on his couch listening to Hob knocking and calling his name. The tears no longer come. He doesn’t know if it’s an improvement or not.

The tears may not appear, but there is no hiding the agony residing in his heart. Another love lost. At least this time was his own doing, his own choice. No one could hurt him again, no one but himself. He just hopes he hasn’t hurt Hob.

He’ll move on and forget you soon enough. Dream concedes to the voice in his head, traitorous though it is. Calliope did. It stands to reason that Hob will, too. Hob has too much love in his heart to not want to share it; he’ll find someone better, someone who can love him without weighing him down.

Thana comes over a week later, clearly alerted to Dream’s state by Lucienne. He has barely spoken at work. Even Burgess’s calls end with only two words spoken the entire time—“Emrys” and “No”. His sister sits with him, his head in her lap, and runs her fingers through his hair as they watch mindless sitcoms on the television. They don't speak, but he knows she knows. He doesn’t cry.

Del brings with her the cheeriness that Dream usually loves. But right now, he can’t bear happy and vivacious. He needs silence, space to mourn the loss of another amazing relationship, and time to move on. He tolerates her presence in a way he never has before—barely. Then she leaves, and he can breathe again. He doesn’t cry.

Dream has just curled up on the couch two weeks, four days, and seventeen hours after his lunch with Calliope when a knock sounds at the door. He stares at the door but makes no move to answer the beckon. Whoever it is can leave him in peace. It’s all he asks for.

Unfortunately, ‘whoever it is’ turns out to have a key. The lock shifts out of place, the door swings open, and Desi breezes into the flat as if they own the place. Dream scowls and curses Thana. She was meant to have a key for emergencies, not to give to their other siblings. He curls further into a ball and tugs the blankets over his head as Desi moves about in the kitchen.

He startles when a weight settles on top of him, and the scent of orange blossom and vanilla black tea floods his senses. He shifts as much as he possibly can until Desi rolls off to curl up between his back and the sofa cushions. Their arm wraps around his waist; he closes his eyes against the pressure of their forehead between his shoulderblades. Their grip tightens as his body shakes with more tears, sobs he hadn’t known were building inside of him.

Desi holds him through it all, holds him even long after his eyes have dried and he uncovers his head. As soon as he does, their hand comes up to play with the ends of his hair. He clears his throat, but words won’t come. Desi shakes their head against his back.

“Don’t worry about it, big brother. It’s what siblings are for.”

“I have treated you poorly.”

“And I’ve treated you like shit. Call us even.” Desi sighs, a heavy thing that expands their chest. “I never wanted you to break up with your boyfriend.”

“It’s for the best.”

“No, Dream, it isn’t. He made you happy.”

“It would have ended much like it did with Calliope.”

“Calliope fucked up when she let you go, and we all know it.”

Dream throws back the blankets and surges to his feet. “Calliope did the right thing, Desi. I am, as she put it, a broken man.”

“She said what?” Desi sits up rapidly, amber eyes narrowing and unpainted lips pressing together. “She called you a broken man?”

“It is—”

“Shit. It is nothing but bullshit. You are not broken, Dream. You have your flaws, I won’t lie, but that does not make you broken.”

“I can’t eat,” he admits over their diatribe. “I try, and more often than not, I get ill. I work too many hours, and I still yearn for Father’s approval despite the fact he’s long dead. I am stubborn and stuck in my ways, prideful and arrogant. There are far more reasons to hate me than to love me.”

“You’re kind, loyal to those who earn it, and so fucking smart, it’s intimidating,” Desi counters. They stand and approach Dream slowly, as if nearing a skittish wild animal. “You are funny when you want to be. You bring happiness to readers everywhere in your career, and you are an amazing author. Yes, I’ve read some of your works that you had hidden in your room.”

“Those were private.”

“Those were forgotten when you moved out.” Desi places their hands on either side of Dream’s face, holds him still. “Dream… You are the best big brother I’ve ever had, even when you’re being an arrogant ass.”

His eyes burn, but no more tears come. He is cried out. Desi understands; they pull him in for a tight embrace, and he clings to them as hard as he dares.

They fall asleep on the couch with pints of ice cream melting on the coffee-table and the television playing late-night infomercials.

Desi gives him a lift to work the next morning, and he stares at the building for a moment before following them inside. Lucienne glances up from her computer screen, but the phone at her ear prevents her from speaking. Dream takes advantage of that, slipping into his office without a word, while Desi heads to their own.

He somehow manages to focus enough on his job that he doesn’t notice when Lucienne enters his office near lunchtime. She doesn’t ask for his order, nor does she have anything in her hands. Nothing but a stack of papers held together with a paperclip.

“You should read this,” she says, holding the manuscript out.

“Put it in the in-box, and I might get to it.”

“Sir. I think now would be the best time.”

“Lucienne, I do not have time for this. I have a call—”

“Which has been postponed. I told you that two hours ago. Your schedule is clear, and all pertinent emails have already been sent out. You have nothing but time. Sir,” she tacks on, though her tone gives anything but respect.

Dream presses his fingertips to his closed eyelids. Lucienne hasn't moved away from his desk by the time he looks up again; the manuscript is still in her hands, and she still stares at him with a look that says she knows he will give up eventually. They both know it, really.

However, he refuses to give in without some sort of fight. His mouth opens as if to protest again, but she beats him to speaking.

“Sir. Please. I do believe this one will be of particular interest to you.”

“I cannot imagine how,” he snaps even as he takes the bundle of papers. She carefully hides her smile, but Dream has known her long enough. He can see the relief and satisfaction in her eyes. He sighs and glances down at the print on the front page. “‘Dreams of Forever. How… pathetically trite. You think this is interesting to me?”

Lucienne grimaces and tilts her head. “The title needs work, yes, but it’s the heart of the story that matters, is it not?”

“Fine,” he says after a long moment of staring at the author’s name—initials, actually. RG. “Leave me.”

Lucienne bows her head, murmurs a “Thank you, sir”, and turns on her heel. Dream waits until the door is closed before he flips to the first page and settles back in his chair to read.

Once upon a time—Here, he snorts. No one begins a book with ‘Once upon a time’ unless it’s a fairy story meant for children. And those authors are not who Dream chooses to represent. But he’d promised Lucienne in a roundabout way. So he continues.

Once upon a time, a man opened a bakery. The man—we’ll name him Rob. Well, Rob didn’t expect much from it. All he knew was that running a bakery was his ultimate dream. He enjoyed baking. He enjoyed making people happy. He enjoyed meeting new people. He figured the bakery would be the best way to combine all three, and he was right. He loved every second, even the ones too early in the morning.

Actually, those were, perhaps, the best. The world was silent, and he was able to listen to everything slowly waking up. It was his favourite time of day, that precious window of time between midnight and dawning. No one bothered him, and he could bring his creations to fruition without someone pestering him. (He will never be able to thank the kindly old lady who taught him to bake, or to apologise for ever having been a pest himself.)

Those WERE his favourite hours. Then one day, into the bakery walked a beautiful, stern-faced woman with a shaved head and golden wire-rimmed glasses and the most beautiful man Rob had ever seen. With piercing blue eyes and pale skin, the man was simply perfect. Rob wanted nothing more than to plunge his hands into that thick black hair. He wanted to taste the lips that screamed to be kissed.

Rob’s favourite hours narrowed to minutes—minutes during which he was able to see and speak to the man, though words were hard for Rob. He tripped over his own tongue, and the man certainly didn’t seem to appreciate any flirtations. So Rob resigned himself to seeing this gorgeous face and never knowing the man behind it.

But then. Oh, but then, the miraculous happened. Three months into the near-daily visits, the man left behind his business card. Rob didn’t see it at first, but when he did… He was speechless. His friend took the piss out of him, but Rob only cared that he now had the man’s number. More than that, he had a NAME. He would admit to the first person who asked, he truly thought the man had been joking about his name, but no. Rob’s dream man was named just that: Dream.

Dream’s throat closes, and his fingers tighten around the papers. This surely isn’t… He must be imagining it. This isn’t…

Now that he had that information, Rob was afraid to wait much longer. So he spent six hours dialling the number only to stop himself before he could actually put the call through. He finally did it, his heart in his throat the entire time the line trilled. He managed to get the words “Would you want to have dinner with me?” out without making himself look like too much a fool, and he nearly cried when Dream agreed. After some hesitation, obviously. (Rob may have teared up a bit as soon as the call ended.) His best friends came over to help him choose an outfit for the date (well… Rachel did. Johanna mostly just sat on the bed and teased him mercilessly).

Rob was pleasantly surprised that the evening went well. That Dream agreed to another spent with Rob. That Dream asked Rob to kiss him goodnight. Rob went home thanking every god ever in existence for the chance to taste those kissable lips.

They had five months. Five glorious months before things went to shit. Rob thought everything was fine. Better than, really. Making love felt like the first time every time. Rob had spent more nights in bed with Dream than without, and he even had a copy of a key to his flat waiting in his pocket. He had planned to give it to Dream on the night marking six months of their relationship. They’d even confessed their love for each other. But… Dream put an end to that, one week shy.

Dream left Rob without answers, without apology. There was nothing left but a gaping hole in Rob’s chest where Dream had been and a key that Dream would never have. Rob spent weeks desperately trying to figure out what he had done wrong. How had things gone so horribly sideways without him knowing it was even a possibility? How could Dream so easily leave when all Rob wanted to do was give him the fucking world?

Then a month later, Rob realised…

Dream flips the paper over, but the backside is blank as he expected. What had Rob realised?

“Rob realised he’d done nothing wrong and it was all Dream being an utter arse and not talking about whatever scared him off.”

Dream’s head snaps up, and he stares at Hob. In the man’s hands are a lemon-blueberry muffin and a to-go cup that Dream knows contains a flat white with caramel. Hob’s lips quirk slightly.

“Rob also realised that no matter what, he still loves Dream and wants a forever with him, despite the pain he’s caused.”

“Hob…” Dream swallows and blinks rapidly, but the tears remain pooled in the corners of his eyes. “I…”

“I know, love. May I set these down? Only the coffee is starting to burn my hand.”

Dream rushes to clear a spot on his desk, and Hob smiles as he places the coffee on the surface. He places the muffin on top of the manuscript—his manuscript. Dream fingers the edge of the papers and lets the words swim out of focus.

“How did you get Lucienne to agree to this?”

“I’m very persuasive, as you very well know.”

“I do.” He sighs and finally looks back at Hob. “I’m a mess.”

“Oh, that, I’m aware of. But guess what, Dream? We all are. Every one of us has our issues and flaws and fears. I understand that, because I’d be a bloody hypocrite if I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you get to run off just because you let your insecurities get the best of you.”

“Calliope—”

“Your ex-wife did a real number on you, you’ve said. Luce has said. So have Thana and Del and Desi, and the fact that I’m now on speaking terms with your siblings without your knowledge will never not be amusing to me. I, however, am not Calliope. I… Damn it, Dream, I thought I’d proven to you that I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“And that’s the problem!” Dream says; Hob rears back, eyes wide, and Dream realises he’s shouted. He draws in a shaky breath and picks at the streusel atop the muffin. “That’s the problem. I… I was so used to being alone, to being left, that your staying was unfamiliar. It was… It was painful, to speak truly. Because even though you’d proven you’d stay, I still kept waiting for when that promise would end.”

“It was never going to.”

“Was?”

Hob rounds the desk to crouch before Dream. His smile is soft, sweet, and Dream can read nothing but love in it. “It never will.” His smile dims, and he reaches for Dream’s hands. “But I can’t—I can’t keep letting you break my heart just because you’re afraid. Dream… You’re either in all the way, or you’re out all the way. There’s no halfway in this. I don’t want that.”

“I need some time,” Dream mumbles through numb lips a minute later.

Hob’s face falls. Of course it does. Dream hasn’t given an actual answer. Hasn’t given any hope. But Hob doesn’t say anything. He only nods and rises to his feet. Dream stares at the floor as Hob’s footsteps get further away. At the door, he stops.

“You know where to find me when you’re ready. Either way.”

His I hope you’re in is almost too quiet, but Dream hears it anyway. He closes his eyes until the door clicks shut, then he stares out the window. Thick cloud cover obscures anything further than the end of the street. There are four other manuscripts he needs to read through, but he can’t concentrate on anything. All he can focus on are the soft words ringing in his ears.

What does it mean that Hob is willing to forgive him for such atrocious behaviour? Dream pushes his palms against his eyelids until he sees starbursts, and his chest rattles with a broken sob. He curls in on himself, struggles to maintain composure. He ended the relationship almost two months ago. The decision was one he made alone. He has no right to be torn up by it.

It’s time to move on.

But damn it, he doesn’t want to. Does he?

He doesn’t sleep that night or the one after. The only reason he sleeps at all through the rest of the week is because of Lucienne. She presses sleeping tablets and a variety of calming teas into his hands, begs him to give them a try:

“You are only hurting yourself, Dream. Please.”

How can he deny her this simple thing, when she has done so much for him? So he accepts the help she extends, and to his everlasting relief, the tablets work. It’s a fitful sleep, but sleep nonetheless. He dreams of Hob, bringing fresh waves of pain when he wakes, but it’s still rest. Lucienne seemingly approves—she no longer questions his ability to do things such as sit behind a desk and read manuscripts.

Eventually, the chamomile stops working. The sleeping tablets continue having their effect, but Dream wakes feeling worse than when he went to bed. His dreams take frightening turns into nightmare territory, and each morning finds him gasping and battling tears. Reaching for someone who is no longer there.

How could he have been so damn stupid to have let Hob leave like that? No. Hob hadn’t been the one to leave. Dream had pushed him away. Shoved him, really. He will never forgive himself for what he’s done. And now it’s been nearly a month since Hob found him in the office, and it’s too late.

Hob will have moved on by now, and why shouldn’t he. He deserves happiness, something Dream could never truly provide. Dream carries in his heart all the love possible to hold for another, but it would never have been enough. It wasn’t for Calliope, and it wouldn’t be for Hob. There is a set number of times a person can have another lonely meal during which there should be a companion, go to sleep in an empty bed in which another body should lie, or stroll through a park when there should be another holding their hand. Dream has always forced his partners to reach that limit far too quickly.

No, Hob would never have been truly happy.

Dream knows this is for the best, so he must accept it. Wanting differently does no good, and it's only a waste of time. So he resigns himself to drowning in the never-ending agony until Hob is nothing more than a distant memory.

“You know where to find me when you’re ready. Either way.”

Dream does. So he goes.

The bell over the door announces his arrival, but it goes unnoticed under the din of dozens of conversations. Dream hesitates; he had forgotten the lunch rush, when people need their midday bursts of caffeine. His hand hovers over the door handle behind him, but then Hob looks away from the customer he’s speaking with. Freezes.

This is an awful time. There are too many witnesses for this heartbreak, but Dream knows he needs to get the words out. To tell Hob that there is no hope. It is better to sever ties now than to drag it out. So Dream steels his spine, gathers his courage. It’s time. His voice cuts through the chatter:

“I’m all in.”

Hob’s answering smile is slow to appear and all the more dazzling for it.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream of the endless x hob gadling #dream x hob #dreamling #human!au #dreamling bingo #my writing

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