#letting agents in Central London

[astonchaseuk]

TOP INQUIRIES TO ASK LETTING AGENTS BEFORE SIGNING A LEASE

Asking acceptable questions is important when searching for a lease agreement to ensure you understand all the terms and circumstances. By posing relevant questions, you'll prevent miscommunications and even conflicts between the owner and, therefore, the letting agents in Central London. By outlining every detail of the lease beforehand, each side can create an open and advantageous renting arrangement.

Questions to Ask Letting Agents

Are there any additional fees not mentioned within the listing?

It's crucial to enquire about any extra costs that must be made clear within the listing and the basics of the lease. Clear communication about all possible expenses at the outset helps avoid confusion and guarantees a positive renting experience.

What is the policy on maintenance and repairs?

It is crucial to seek out a few letting agents' maintenance and repair policies before choosing one. Learning how they address these problems will help you determine the standard of service you anticipate as a renter. It's imperative to decide whether or not they have a specialised maintenance crew, what the standard repair turnaround is, and whether there are any extra costs.

How is the process for renewing the lease handled?

Another crucial topic is asking Central London agents about the lease renewal procedure. Being aware of the precise procedures involved and any renewal dates can help you plan ahead and prevent misunderstandings. Some agencies may also require proper written notice before the lease expires, while other agents will produce other protocols in situ.

What are the principles regarding guest visits and subletting?

Finally, it is a good idea to discuss with West London estate agents the rules surrounding guest visits and subletting. By being aware of limitations on the number of tourists permitted, the length of their stay, and, therefore, the subletting process, you can often avoid future disputes. By being aware of these guidelines upfront, you'll guarantee a seamless and trouble-free rental experience.

What is the procedure for ending the lease early?

Finding a way to break a lease early when renting a property is essential. By being conscious of the principles and conditions of early termination, future disputes could also be avoided. Specific West London estate agents might charge you a fee or require a notice period if you want to quit the lease before the agreed-upon term.

How is rent payment handled, and what have the results been lately?

The rent payment process is one of the foremost essential parts of renting a property. Determine whether other options are available for handling rent payments, like bank transfer or direct debit. It is also critical to grasp the repercussions of creating a late fee, including extra costs and possible action. Clear communication about rent payment expectations often sustains an honest landlord-tenant relationship.

Are there any restrictions on decorating or making changes to the property?

It's crucial to find out if there are any limitations on how you can decorate or alter a rental property. Certain rental agencies may have specific rules for painting, hanging art, and making repairs to the property. Understanding those limitations will assist you in steering clear of possible conflicts and guarantee a positive rental experience.

Conclusion

Effective communication with letting agents in Central London is essential to a cheerful tenancy. Tenants should speak of any worries or difficulties they'll need to their leasing agency without holding back since timely and efficient resolutions will result in a better rental experience. Letting companies can establish an interdependent relationship supporting openness and respect with their renters by cultivating open communication lines and immediately addressing tenant complaints.

Source- https://aston-chase.weebly.com/blog/top-inquiries-to-ask-letting-agents-before-signing-a-lease

[bloomingpresent]

FERRO ROSSO CHAPTER VIII

Pairing: Charles Leclerc/Female reader digital artist older woman

Summary: in your mid 30’s you never imagined you’d be divorced. To help with the healing process you decide to return to your first love: digital illustration. Posting videos of your art online leads you to work for Ferrari. But you never thought it’d lead you to find somebody who’s going to bring you back to trust again in love.

Warnings: NSFW! 18+, swearing mention of sexual words, consensual sex, penetration, cheating, sexually themed. IT’S ALL ABOUT REVERSE AGE GAP HERE. Older woman with a younger man. They are both adults, don’t be judgemental. 

Disclaimer:

I don’t mean any offense to Mr. Leclerc. 

English isn’t my first language so all mistakes are my own. My Italian is basic so be gentle, please.

All the previous chapters are here

The sound of your cell phone wakes you up the next morning. You turn towards the nightstand and pick up the phone without looking.

"Hello?" You answer with a sleepy voice.

"Do you want to tell me what this email I'm reading?" Your agent's voice speaks on the other end of the line.

You barely open your eyes. "It's pretty clear," you answer, trying to adjust your vision to the morning sun that barely enters through your bedroom window.

"Do you want to end your contract with Ferrari?!" she asks. You can hear the sound of cars in the background.

"Yes" you answer dryly.

"Why the hell do you want to do that?!" Your agent sounds agitated about the topic.

“I…” you try to sit up on the bed. You know that if you are not honest with her, she will never understand why you want to stay away from Ferrari. "I have an affair with Charles Leclerc and I'm not able to handle it," you answer, almost whispering.

The silence on the other end of the line is worse than yelling at you.

"Hello?" You repeat, rubbing your eyes.

"I'll see you in the office in 1 hour. If I'm going to do this, you’d buy me coffeeat least" she answers on the other side.

An hour later, you're walking up the stairs to your agent's office in central London.

You can almost hear her lecturing you about being professional in your work.

You let your agent know what happened. Her reaction ranges from anger, to surprise, to understanding you as a woman.

"I'm going to talk to Ferrari's agent. It's not easy to get out of a contract like that. But you have to show up for the restart of the season, otherwise it would be a breach of the contract, at least until I can pass on my proposal to them, okay?" " she tells you as she plays with the pencil on the desk and drinks the Starbucks coffee you bought her.

You don't want to, you don't like it and you don't feel like doing it. But there you will go again, into the den of the wolf again.

What motivates you the most is that you don't know Baku, so from now on everything will be work and if possible, get to know a new city. Which is what you're really going to miss about working with Ferrari.

You have everything planned scientifically. Your agent will release you from this contract and you will be able to return to your studio to create your art in peace.

Just one more time.

Baku shows you right away that it is the capital city of the modern world. Maybe you wouldn't have seen places like these if it weren't for F1.

Everyone on the team has renewed energy after the mini vacation. But you are not.

From the moment you check in at the hotel you are alert. Or ready to avoid all contact with a certain driver.

The first day on the circuit, when you arrive at the hospitality area, you receive a video call from your agent.

"I'm afraid I don't have good news for you," she says as soon as you answer the call.

You walk outside the Ferrari hospitality area while talking. "What are you talking about?" You answer her, already agitated, fearing the worst.

"Ferrari is not willing to terminate your contract" she tells you with a strange smile on her face.

"That's funny?! Why can't I end my contract with them?! I'm just another designer" you try not to raise your voice but you're flustered.

Your agent's smile is bigger now. "They actually offer you a promotion, and from what I'm seeing it has already been made effective."

Your heart stops for a few seconds. "What?! Effective promotion?!"

"You are now Charles Leclerc's PR agent, dear." Your agent laughs openly.

She tells you that out of the corner of your eye you can see the movement of photographers and cameras at the entrance to the hospitality area. That means a driver is making the entrance.

You move out of the way, holding your breath, hoping it's not him. "What the hell?! Why?! How?!" You spoke to your phone screen in complete shock while walking through the group of people.

"Apparently he asked for you." the voice on the other end of the call tells you.

This can not be. It's the only thing you can think about while you hold your phone with your mouth open and ignoring what's going on around you.

"Be careful what you let into that open mouth," someone tells you from the middle of the group of people.

Of course it's him. With his big smile and his winning attitude. And continue walking towards the hospitality area.

You want to kill him.

You just sigh and close your mouth. You put on your best smile of commitment and walk away.

What follows is an open discussion between you and your agent about the topic. She explains why you can't get out of the contract, you tell her why you won't accept it, she tells you again why not and why you shouldn't do it. Then follows another long sermon about how good this is for you professionally.

Again.You want to kill him.

You don't understand why, how and what he wants from you.

Your agent convinces you after half an hour of your arguments and tantrums.

You just sit on the floor between the giant equipment trailers trying to prepare yourself for this.

In minutes you'd have been in front of your new boss to start working at Team Leclerc.

You are completely stubborn and you are not going to let it affect you. IF he wants you to be the person who is stuck to him throughout the season, that's how it will be. And you will be the most professional person in the world.

This is your plan, it is decided. Whatever he wants with this. He's not going to make it.

It takes you more than 1 hour to introduce yourself to your new superior and get up to speed on your new tasks. The questions from your colleagues do not wait. About how and why you were promoted. Silvia Hoffer, your new direct boss, is an experienced person and surely smells something of what is happening. But she doesn't tell you anything, she just tells you what you should do and she makes it clear that "this is a test, if it doesn't work for us, we can let you go."

Only she knows what she means by "make this work." But you're as stubborn as Charles, and you won't let whatever her reason for doing this ruin your resume.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you step into the bustling Ferrari hospitality area. The adrenaline from the chaotic morning lingers, and you can’t shake the image of Charles from your mind. He’s a magnet, and somehow, you’re drawn to him even when you want to run in the opposite direction.

As you navigate through the sea of team members and journalists, you catch a glimpse of him across the room. He’s laughing with a couple of reporters, his charisma radiating like sunlight. You can’t help but feel a twinge of longing mixed with annoyance. Why did he have to complicate things?

Silvia appears beside you, breaking your thoughts. “You’re going to have to talk to him eventually. Remember, professionalism.”

“Right,” you murmur, forcing a smile. “Professionalism.”

“Let’s start with a plan,” she suggests, her tone businesslike. “We need to establish clear boundaries.”

You nod, trying to focus. “Okay, I can do that.”

“Good. And just so you know, the media is going to love this. They’ll eat it up.” She glances over at Charles, who’s just spotted you. “Looks like it’s time for your first introduction.”

Your heart races as he strides over, that effortless confidence in every step. He stops in front of you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, look who it is. My new PR agent.” 

“Don’t get too excited,” you retort, crossing your arms. “I’m not your personal cheerleader.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks, his gaze steady on yours. “Just think of me as your biggest project.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Let’s just stick to the work, shall we?”

“Of course,” he replies, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But I hope you’re ready for a little chaos. F1 isn’t exactly quiet.”

“I thrive in chaos,” you reply, matching his playful tone. Inside, however, you’re a bundle of nerves. This is going to be a test of your patience—and your heart.

As the day progresses, you find yourself following him around the paddock, taking notes on interviews and media obligations. Despite your best intentions to stay professional, there’s a chemistry that crackles in the air, leaving you breathless. 

During a break, you find a quiet corner to gather your thoughts. You pull out your sketchbook, a habit from your days of digital illustration. Drawing was your escape, your solace. But today, even that isn’t enough to ease the tension.

“Hard work?” Charles’s voice interrupts, and you look up to see him leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Just… organising my thoughts,” you say, trying to sound casual. 

He steps closer, glancing at your sketches. “You’re really talented, you know?.”

“Thanks,” you reply, suddenly feeling shy. “It’s just a hobby—was just a hobby.” You set the pencil down, meeting his gaze. “But now I guess it’s part of my job.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “You seem conflicted about all this.”

“I didn’t want this role, Charles. I’m not sure I can handle it, especially with… everything.” 

He hesitates, the playful spark dimming. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know it’s complicated.”

“Complicated is an understatement,” you say, frustration bubbling up. “I’m trying to get my life back on track, or was trying to get my life back on track, and being around you makes that difficult.”

“I get that,” he says softly, stepping even closer. “But maybe this is a chance for both of us. To redefine things. To… figure it out.”

Your heart races as you look into his eyes, seeing a sincerity that makes you want to trust him. But your walls are high, fortified by past hurts. “I can’t just jump back into… whatever this is.”You look around, clearly this isn't a subject to be talking around people. 

“I’m not asking you to,” he replies, his voice low. “Just take it one step at a time. We can keep things professional, but I can’t help the way I feel about you.”

Feel about you. He said that you did not imagine it.

You swallow hard, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. “It’s not that simple, Charles.”

He takes a breath, looking momentarily pained. “I know. But I’ll be here, whether you want me to be or not.”

Before you can respond, Silvia appears, breaking the moment. “Y/N, we need you for the next briefing,” she says, oblivious to the tension. 

You nod, glancing back at Charles, who offers a small, encouraging smile. As you turn away, you feel the weight of the decision hanging over you. Maybe you’re not ready to dive back into love (or whatever this is), but with Charles, it seems like you’ll be navigating a whole new kind of chaos. 

You take a deep breath and head towards the briefing, determined to keep your focus on the work, even if your heart has other plans.

PS: I'll post the next chapter tomorrow! It's Charles POV. Thank you for waiting on me!

Tags: @janeh22 @elenizacharop @h-jpg

[emkayewrites]

Another photo that inspired one of the chapters of ''Curtain Fall', my Lukola fanfiction.

Here's a sneak preview:

It was going to be a hot summer.

She could sense it.

Traditionally, English summer involved occasional rain showers and the need to pull on a warm pair of socks but this year the weather had been consistently dry and warm.  In fact, the fluffy pink socks she had bought to London were still in her suitcase over a month later.

These were the thoughts on her mind that evening as she stepped into the twenty-fifth floor apartment that she was calling a temporary home.  The space was open plan; a kitchen complete with marble worktops that stretched into a living room that was surrounded by large windows. An orange-red sunset painted the city skyline before her. 

She slipped out of her black, open-toed kitten heels and enjoyed the soothing coolness of the floorboards on her sore feet.  She switched on a few lamps, moving around the cream sofa and glass coffee table that took center stage in the living room area.

Ping!

She deliberated ignoring her phone.  All she wanted in that moment was to soak in a bath, then curl into bed and fall into a very deep sleep.  Her better nature advised her against it, recalling that the last time she had been out-of-contact for an entire day was also the last time her mother had almost had a panic attack. 

This was the thing about press days.  They were all-consuming.  Today, it had been swelteringly hot but there had been no opportunity to stop and sufficiently hydrate herself, let alone answer a text message.  She reminded herself that there was a time in her life where she would lose entire days to social media; feeling a sense of shame when she came to the end of her Instagram feed, something she had not known was even possible.

The message was from Luke; it was a screenshot from an article.

The article was titled: Nicola Coughlan wowed in a chic white shirt dress by London designer Simone Rocha. She was greeted with an image of herself: blonde hair expertly parted at one side with bright-red lips.  The dress in question was cinched in at the waist by extra sleeves that functioned as a belt. It was a look that Aimée, her stylist, assured her was sophisticated and fashion-forward. 

“Wow, I know her!” He had commented.

She laughed despite herself, flopping down onto the sofa.

She was still in the dress.  The photo had only been taken a few hours ago and was already featured in Vogue’s Best Dressed At Wimbledon list before she had even had a chance to get home and into a change of clothes.  Life had gradually become strange but since the Derry Girls finale last month, the media and fan attention had ramped up in a very noticeable way.  

“For the last time - get me OFF your Google Alerts, demon.” She texted back, still smiling.

There was an ongoing chain of messages between them that had started since their weekend away.  Some mornings she would wake up to a meme from him.  Other times, she had been the one to share a random musing that sparked a day of back-and-forth commentary, complete with GIFs.  They had continued this pattern despite the reality of her life catching up to her.  Very quickly, she had become an actress that was ending her run on one highly successful show and about to headline another.  Her publicist and agent were inundated which meant she was inundated. 

Now, days were spent at some glamorous event or other and any free time was dedicated to catching up with work emails and her family and where possible, Luke.  Everyone and everything else would have to wait.  This would be her routine until Bridgerton started filming.  Speaking to Luke every day was important.  It reignited the trust and humour that was central to their friendship.  It was not a spark she wanted to lose this close to the start of filming even if some days all she could muster up was an emoji response.

You can read more here:

[13atoms]

just me, in all of my plain jane glory (Lockwood x Lucy Carlyle)

Stuck on the train home, it's just Lucy and Lockwood left overtired and awake. [3.6k]

Contains: hurt/comfort, pre-relationship locklyle, imposter syndrome, body image issues, very brief suicidal thoughts but in a jokey Lucy way, overtired agent babies, train journey, lucy stealing lockwood's hoodie

every time I start struggling with confidence at work I write a locklyle fic. also I’m sorry if this is too political but #ReNationaliseTheRailways

It was customary for Lockwood and Co. to economise on travel wherever possible – as much as Lucy could tell it embarrassed Lockwood and his posh sensibilities. She’d never minded much, the back of a private car or a first class carriage would only make her feel uncomfortable. Trains, then, became a staple part of their larger mansion-clearing jobs.

By now, there was a pattern to the way they travelled. Bustle onto the train with bags reeking of lavender and metal, dump everything on a table surrounded by four seats facing inwards. Letting George sprawl out across two seats guaranteed that no other passenger would dare to join them.  With rapiers at their sides and the clink of chains as the train rolled along, being recognised as agents tended to keep the seats around them empty. Lucy liked the window seat, resting her head against the window and watching scenery rush past her. Lockwood liked being between Lucy and the aisle. George could sleep anywhere – and he did. Often slumped over the kit bags. Overall, catching trains was one of the more well-oiled parts of their operation.

They could always rely on strangers to stay away from them. On George getting a kip ten minutes after they’d left the station. On Lockwood buying them a round of tea and biscuits from the trolley. The trains themselves, though, were less predictable.

Lucy had never thought of the Peak District as particularly far north, but returning from clearing a particularly aggressive Phantasm from Haddon Hall was proving the longest journey she could recall them taking. Through driving rain, their bus to the station had never materialised, so Lockwood had furiously called a taxi, who insisted on extra pay to transport three soggy, sweaty agents. No one had slept the night before, because the job had taken so long, and they’d only made their train because it was late. A blessing, until a technical fault left them stationary at sunset between Derby and Leicester.

A barely-comprehensible voice over the Tannoy told them that an engineer wouldn’t make it out until curfew lifted. Lockwood had found the conductor, offered to escort the engineer himself, and returned rejected and sulking to their empty carriage.

The three of them had played rummy for a bit to cheer him up, cards splayed across the table as night fell outside the window. It was getting cold. Noises and movement outside were enough to make Lucy jump. After twenty minutes their game of cards had fizzled out, and Lockwood hadn’t found anything particularly interesting to read aloud on his second perusal of The Times. After the conductor wandered through with the paltry remains of the first-class catering (and another thanks to Lockwood for his offer), Geroge had fallen dead asleep. Lucy watched him with envy, contemplating opening a fourth shortbread biscuit. The night was so absolute that she couldn’t make out the bushes outside anymore.

Lockwood slumped backwards, toeing his shoes off and resting pink-sock-clad feet on the seat beside George. He sighed, and rubbed a thumb between his eyes.

“I need to fucking learn to drive,” he sighed.

“We live in Central London,” Lucy pointed out.

He shrugged.

“Well we work in the middle of nowhere. What kind of outfit are we, if we need picking up at the station?”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

“You only turned 17 last month.”

Lockwood said nothing, which was as close as he ever got to ceding an argument. They’d spoken for a while longer, first about how they’d get home. Then about how much they wanted showers, and about how jealous they were that George could sleep anywhere. Then, they’d fallen silent for a while, though Lucy knew he was still awake.

“Can you see if my coat is still wet?” she murmured.

It was no surprise, when Lockwood reached over to feel the material, that it was.

“Sorry Luce. I’d give you mine, only…”

The thing wasn’t waterproof in the first place, and still dripped into the luggage rack.

“Of course. Thank you, though.”

“’S okay.”

He watched her for a while, and it only made Lucy feel colder as she tried not to shiver.

“I have a spare hoodie. It’s been worn, but…”

“That’s okay.”

He rummaged around for the hoodie, and made a show of straightening out and folding it just so she could clumsily pull it over her head. Wearing two jumpers, Lucy was sure she looked ridiculous and bulky, but she didn’t care. Copying Lockwood, she shucked off her trainers. Lucy pulled her feet up, jamming her legs between her chest and the table, and finally stopped shivering.

His sleeves were too long, and she pulled them down over her hands, feeling like a kid again, stealing her big sisters’ clothes. Though she could never remember noticing the smell of another person as much as she noticed that Lockwood’s hoodie smelled of him. She tucked her chin into the neckline, feeling the fabric over her chin and her lips.

Because she was cold.

No other reason.

When Lucy looked up Lockwood was watching her, his face not quite reaching amusement. His eyes were too wide. The frown lines had disappeared from his forehead.

“Sorry, I’m stretching it.”

“No!” He insisted, moving his hands but not reaching for her, “No, sorry. Keep it. I’m just tired.”

“Right…”

She settled back in the seat, pulled the hood up, tried to rest against the window before changing her mind. She’d fallen last night, and not had a chance to examine the huge bruise on her hip except for under the fluorescent light of the train toilet. It ached as she shifted her legs.

“I really am so jealous of how he sleeps like that.”

“It’s like a superpower,” Lockwood agreed.

Neither of them slept well. Lucy knew that. She often heard him creeping down the stairs, or turning over and over in bed in the late night silence of the house.

“Maybe he’s drunk or something.”

It was a stupid comment, and Lockwood didn’t pretend to laugh.

“That would explain it,” he murmured.

She liked having the hood up. Liked being in Lockwood’s clothes. Liked that he was there, with her, sharing time with her that George didn’t get. She also knew those were dangerous thoughts.  

“There’s one thing I’ve never understood about you, Lucy,” Lockwood said suddenly.

He was nervous to ask the question, and it made her stomach swoop.

“One thing?” she mumbled, aware of how little she wanted George to wake up and interrupt.

It was the exact type of comment George would make.

“Well. More than one thing. Though I do hope I understand you a bit, I mean, we are…”

He trailed off, and Lucy wondered what he’d been about to say. Colleagues, probably. Or something dafter. Housemates.

“Are you going to ask me, then?”

He wasn’t sure how to find the words. Lockwood leant out from his seat, one long arm bracing himself against the seat opposite as he took another sweep of the train, checking it was empty.

“I know you don’t like me talking about you to the press.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, and groaned just to make him laugh.

“I know! I know,” he insisted, “but you’re so powerful. Types 3s, your listening… This could all be easy for you. And you’re spending an evening trapped on a broken-down Off-Peak train without dinner.”

“We didn’t get lunch, either,” she pointed out, and regretted it when that line reappeared between his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m just teasing, don’t be so soft.”

She was ignoring his question. Thinking about it. Or, rather, about why he’d asked it.

“I know,” he said again.

For a while longer, Lucy looked at the Caledonian Sleeper advert on the wall opposite. Scotland looked nice. She’d never been.

“I just don’t want to see myself in the paper,” she told him.

“I literally do not understand that.”

She knew he was joking, but she’d always suspected Lockwood really didn’t understand.

“Just… I already hate seeing photos of myself with the level of press we do get. And my mum… she’ll see it at the corner shop and buy a copy just so she can tell all her friends I’ve only got here by sleeping around or lying or something –”

Lucy stopped herself. Checked if George was awake. Looked straight ahead at the picture of a castle on the Caledonian Sleeper advert. Lockwood wasn’t saying anything, and she thought maybe if she kept speaking he’d never say anything.

“She always reckoned Mary was the prettiest of us, anyway. No idea why they’d waste ink on that one.”

“Luce –”

“No, it’s fine. I know I shouldn’t care what she’d say. I mean, I might be wrong, even –”

Lockwood’s hand found her arm. Lucy’s head ached. She realised that if she breathed wrong, she’d start crying.

“Sorry,” she murmured, “I think I’m overtired.”

“You can’t be serious?” he asked, and she had no idea which part he meant, so she didn’t say anything. “Lucy…”

“No, it’s fine. Sorry, I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

“No, I’m glad you brought it up. I just… no, sorry. I really can’t understand it. Your mum wouldn’t say that.”

When Lucy laughed, it was wet, and she brought her sleeved hand to her nose.

“No offense, Lockwood, but she very much would.”

“Can I hug you?”

She leant into him, and focussed everything she had on not crying at Lockwood’s arm wrapping around her shoulder. George’s curls were splayed out on the kit bag, his face indented from one of the buckles pressed into his forehead. Lucy was careful not to jostle the table. This was mortifying enough. If George woke up now, she’d have to throw herself onto the tracks.

Lockwood was bonier than Norrie, but not by much. He was warm. They were at a different angle, but even sitting side by side and through a hoodie, she recognised the curve of his cheekbone resting against her forehead. She couldn’t see his face at all when he spoke.

“I’m sorry you think that.”

“I don’t think that, Lockwood. It’s dead true.”

“Well then, I’m very glad you’re here with us. And I hope I’ll never have the displeasure of meeting her.”

“You’d beat her in a duel.”

Lucy tried to joke, but the words fell flat. Her lungs ached for air, but a gasp would be the start of sobs. And she was hoping the hoodie might be maintaining some of her dignity.

“I think I forget, sometimes, because of my parents…” he trailed off. He was heavy against her, “I always imagine anyone with parents is really lucky.”

He meant so well, she hardly had it in her to tease. Stitches were breaking, and Lockwood was offering her an open wound.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe, because I was so young… but I don’t think they’d have ever said anything like that. No one’s parent should.”

Lucy didn’t say anything, she wasn’t sure what she could say. Lockwood was talking more candidly now.

“I wonder if we’d have ever fallen out.”

“I bet fourteen-year-old Lockwood would have gotten into some good screaming matches with them, about sleeping in and cleaning your room” she teased, before backtracking, “but they sound like they’d have always forgiven you.”

“Jess said she’d never heard either of them raise their voices.”

Lucy swallowed something thick and uncomfortable in her throat.

“They sounded really special.”

He nodded, silently, and moved away from her for a moment to clear his throat. In the reflection of the train window, she could see his eyes swimming.

“I hope you don’t believe a word of it, Luce. I’ve never seen a picture where you don’t look beautiful.”

“Yeah, why do you think we never take photos,” she snorted.

“We should take more.”

Lucy inhaled, frustrated, but let Lockwood indulge in his fantasy. It would soon be forgotten. She thought George might have a camera – but fortunately film was strictly saved for taking photos of illegal sources that Flo stole. And maybe the odd photo of Flo.

“You don’t believe I will,” he said.

“I just hate it when the press takes photos. I don’t want to have to see my mug on some paper on a train,” she gestured at Lockwood’s copy of The Times, folded and discarded. “And then they’ll just make up gossip, to try and get a scoop… I saw what happened to Marissa, and she was like some… model.”

Lockwood mock-gasped, though she could still hear the thickness of tears in her throat.

“Lucy Carlyle, reducing a woman to her looks – you of all people, Luce –”

She shoved against him, and then let her shoulder stay pressed to his. Lockwood didn’t flinch.

“Shut up, you know what I mean. Besides, I’ve seen the poster in your old wardrobe…”

“I’d rather have a Lucy Carlyle poster.”

“Ew.”

Even as she let her voice fall flat, Lucy could feel the blush threatening her cheeks.

“Not like that!” He was insisting, “I had a Tom Rotwell poster too. Agents I admired.”

“I’m not judging, Lockwood… whichever way you swing.”

It was Lockwood’s turn to squirm, even though they both knew she didn’t mean anything by it. Lucy used her secret window-reflection trick to watch his mouth fall open and closed again. He moved away from her to throw his head back against the train seat.

“I’m trying to be sincere, and you’re being mean,” he complained, voice sotto as midnight approached.

When his head lolled towards her, all soft eyes and long lashes with dark smudges settled beneath them, Lucy couldn’t stand to keep eye contact.

“We should get posters made. Best looking agency in London, I reckon,” he drawled.

Now Lockwood was being mean. Or delusional, maybe. He had the capacity for either.

“We absolutely shouldn’t.”

“I think they’d do them as a Sunday special in The Spectral Scene.”

He was smiling now, all sharp white teeth, and Lucy hated how he could control her moods so quickly.

“A whole new generation of teenage Anthony Lockwoods could have us on their walls,” he teased, head lolling against her shoulder in exhaustion.

“We absolutely should not do that. Besides, I don’t exactly look like an agent. I’m not sure anyone would want me on their wall.”

Lockwood’s mood shifted again, and brought hers with it, right into the realm of deadly serious.

“What the hell does that mean? You’re the best agent I’ve ever worked with.”

“You know what I mean,” she waved him away.

“No, I don’t. You don’t really mean what you said about your mum? About photos? Jesus, Lucy.”

“I know it’s not all about looks, but I guess… I’m not Marissa.”

Lockwood was about to interrupt, but Lucy spoke over him.

“I know, but you’re the only person who thinks of me like that.”

“And George.”

“Well yeah, George. But that’s because of you.”

“It absolutely isn’t, Luce. He’s worked with you as much as I have, he knows how good you are.”

“I’m not… I don’t know. Sometimes I just wonder if I’ve gotten lucky, over and over again… I make mistakes literally every day. You said that yourself – that I’m volatile and insubordinate and overly-emotional –”

“I don’t remember ever saying that! Ever! And even if I had, you bloody well shouldn’t believe it. You saved Lockwood and Co., we’d… we’d be nothing without you.”

Poorer, that voice in her head reminded her, they’d be financially poorer without you, Lucy. He’s worried you’ll leave again, and that then people won’t book Lockwood and Co. for their big spooky houses. No wonder he wants you in the newspapers.

She often wondered if Skull had left his jar and moved into her brain. But no, that was all her. All the weakness that lived up there. Kat wasn’t like this. Flo wasn’t. Or George. Or…

“If I was really as good as Marrisa, I wouldn’t find this all so… hard,” she snapped.

“Maybe you find it hard because you beat yourself up over every little mistake!”

Lucy didn’t speak. Not for a while. She felt like Lockwood had physically stuck a hand through her ribcage and into her heart. The tears were back, after she’d tried so hard to keep them at bay. She looked at the Caledonian Sleeper poster. Thought about running away on it. Things had worked out, the last time she bought a train ticket and didn’t look back. She’d had less to lose, then.

Or maybe not. Lockwood knew now. That she wasn’t as good as she projected. The girl who lied about her Grade 4 and was the most powerful listener since stupid bloody Marissa Fittes, and goaded a ghost in a jar all day. She’d never earned this. Wasn’t anything special. If she was put in the newspaper, they’d all know. The whole of London would see right through her, and they’d find out about the Mill, and about her family, and every single time she’d not been good enough.

Lockwood was overtired and exasperated. So was she. Her heart ached where he’d stabbed at it with his fingernails.

“Goodnight, Lockwood.”

She turned away from him and tried to settle in against the seat. She wished they’d turn the emergency lights off. Her stupid face was looking back in the window reflection. Plain. Puffy with tears. Stupid.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured finally, and one hand resting on her bicep. In the reflection, he was looking right at her, “I only mean that I hate it when you’re so hard on yourself.”

Yeah, well. I don’t need you being hard on me too.

Lucy couldn’t say anything out loud. She was too busy trying to level out her breathing, sobs coming with heaves of air that made her lungs ache as she tried restrain herself from making a sound.

“God, Lucy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, for all of it…”

“It’s not your fault,” she choked out.

This was all her fault, and now she was making it his problem. She tried so hard to be easygoing. To pick her battles. Keep all of this away from him. Away from Geroge. From everyone. This deserved to be locked up in her attic room, or her grimy little Zone 3 bedsit. Lockwood was starting to cry.

“Tell me how to make it better,” he begged, but Lucy shook her head.

She glanced at George, checking he was still asleep. This was mortifying.

“I just want to go home.”

“Oh, Lucy, I’m sorry,” he paused, “do you mean… London?”

They both froze. Lucy felt her stomach plummet. She didn’t have anywhere else. Wasn’t Portland Row her home? Lockwood’s hands were shaking. She didn’t know why.

“If that’s… if that’s okay,” she choked out, and Lockwood relaxed visibly.

“Of course! Of course it’s okay. More than… Portland Row is your home as long as you want it. Of course.”

“Oh. Good.”

He didn’t ask his time. Didn’t move slowly to avoid the table. Lockwood threw himself around her and dragged her closer and held her so tight Lucy finally believed she was never going anywhere.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I’m so emotional.”

“God Luce I thought you were leaving again. Please, I don’t… I don’t care about the press. I was just asking.”

“I don’t know why I’m like this, Lockwood, I’m sorry. I just can’t see myself…”

“It’s fine. I don’t care about the papers. Ignore me, I never should have brought it up. Besides, I like seeing my face enough for the both of us, I think.”

When Lucy laughed it was wet and snotty and the best thing Lockwood had ever heard. He was no stranger to fear and relief, each time they captured a source both emotions chased each other through his veins. But this was potent. Something he’d never replicated anywhere other than Lucy. She was the scariest thing in the world.

He saw George’s eyes crack open, and slip closed again with an understanding nod. Surprisingly tactful.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, high on adrenaline and entirely delirious, “I’d buy a poster of you. I’ll put it on my bedroom wall now.”

“Lockwood,” she whined, “shut up.”

“I’m buying a polaroid camera.”

“Don’t be gross.”

She was joking. He knew she was. His chest clutched with fear anyway.

“No, I mean… like the photos you have with Norrie. I love those. You look so beautiful in them. Happy and real, laughing.”

When Lucy agreed, she didn’t mean it. But Lockwood had her pulled to his chest and she was wrapped in his hoodie and he had told her (in a rather indirect way) that he thought she was beautiful, so she let it slide.

“Do you think you can sleep like this?” she asked.

“Yeah, probably. Why?”

“Good. I’m really comfy. Is that weird?”

“No! Not at all. Definitely sleep, if you can.”

He didn’t care if he slept. She was still here. They’d fought, and he still wasn’t sure why, but she was still here. Her eyes were slipping closed, and selfishly, he didn’t want her to go yet.

“Luce?”

“Hm?”

“You’ll have to give me your family’s address – I need to have a stern word with your mother.”

Lucy snorted. He didn’t need the address, it was on her Grades One through Three certificates. She liked the idea of it though, showing up in his suit with all his posh charm and repressed anger. Lucy had never needed saving, but she’d love Lockwood to give her mum a bollocking. The fantasy followed her all the way into her dreams, and she wondered if Lockwood could tell somehow, with her head against his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her on a stationary train.

[fizzyxcustard]

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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[helyiios]

On danse pas

Or that one time Benji went on a solo mission.

Benji says “lol” and Ethan loses his entire fucking mind.

He’s staring at his friend through a screen, watches as he’s being reviewed by Alan Hunley, who looked extremely displeased, by the way, and he can’t help but want to make the room explode.

Or something.

“Did you just say “lol,” agent Dunn ?” the Secretary asks, closing his eyes slowly, “or did I mishear that ?”

“I don’t know what else to say ?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You could explain to me what the fuck happened during your mission, for example. Just for example.”

“Nothing went wrong with this mission.”

Ethan grimaces. With a kill count of fifty three, three civilians, a building in flames, collapsed on itself, and a few people straight up murdered, he wouldn’t say that nothing went wrong. He loves Benji, he really does, he thinks he’s a fantastic guy, truly, but they had to stop sending him on solo missions. Honestly.

“You caused an explosion in Central London,” Hunley states, spreading papers on the table, “do you know how many people got hurt ?”

“Some ?”

“Seventy six. With fifty three dead.”

“Don’t think that’s the biggest I can go,” Benji offers with a genuine smile, and Ethan slams his own head against the wall. “No but I mean, sir, no offence, but I didn’t let that building explode because I had planned it. They had extremely dangerous weapons stored there, and I can’t exactly steal a PHASR in my little purse and come back to the IMF.”

“So your plan of action was to destroy them. By fucking up the entire locals of ARCH.tech.”

“Yeah ? I mean, I stole the blueprints first, didn’t you read the report ?”

“Benjamin Dunn,” Hunley warns, voice low and dangerous, “you’re going to have to use another tone with me.”

“You’re acting like I did something crazy ! Personally, I only killed, like, ten people. Max ! The rest was the explosion.”

“Do you know how angry MI6 is about this ?”

“Well maybe if they hadn’t thrown me out back when I tried to get in they wouldn’t have had to worry about this,” Benji mumbles petulantly, crossing his arms. “Look, I’m sorry for the deaths. I didn’t mean it !”

“You’re not sorry, you don’t care !”

“It’s not like I can care about everyone in this world,” he protests with a grimace. “I’m not Mother Theresa.”

Hunley holds back a scream of frustration, choosing to rub his hands on his face instead.

One thing about Benji Dunn, is that he was efficient. When with Team Hunt, he proved to be resourceful and a master at tech related support. When alone…

Well, his first solo mission had been a breeze. He’d done his part, had come back, gotten slapped on the back, and all was great. Peachy, even. So he’d gotten cleared to get sent on more solo missions. Which always ended…correctly.

Until this one.

Where he’d gone completely looney, and pushed the big red button, and gotten a review as a thanks. And he had had the gall to be displeased about it.

“You were on the news, Benji !”

“Lol,” Benji says out loud again, like an actual fucking lunatic, “yeah, I saw. The BBC. I actually watched it from a bar. Made me blush.”

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously ?!”

“You’re making this a bigger mess than it is !”

“YOU BLEW UP A FUCKING BUILDING IN CENTRAL LONDON !” Hunley screeches, and Benji recoils a little, puckering his lips annoyedly.

“Bad foundations, what can I say.”

“I’m going to get you pulled away from field activities.”

“You can’t,” Benji notes, wiggling his index at him with a laugh, “you need me too much.”

“You’re over estimating your worth.”

“That’s mean.”

“Look,” the Secretary sighs, clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth, “can you at least admit you went a bit overboard with the whole thing ?”

The agent shrugs.

“Sure, if that makes you happy. At the end of the day, I picked up on Bailey’s fuckup at ARCH and I got the info needed. And destroyed their weapons.”

“Ah, yes, but agent Bailey did not kill fifty three people.”

“There’s no free lunch,” Benji just says, visibly very little interested in the whole thing. “Also, I made a very clear a nice report on the whole incident. You can’t even call me lazy.”

“Yes, your report was good.” A pause. “What ? That’s not the point ! Does your team know ?”

A frown.

“Why would they ? They’re not concerned by it.”

“Thought it would shock them.”

“I don’t really care,” Benji whines, “I did my bloody job and I’m getting lectured over it !”

“Well,” Hunley finally says, giving up completely, “do try not to do something like that again. Please.”

“Do you want us to, like, pinky promise ?” he offers, holding out his hand with a crooked pinky finger.

“Get out of my office, Dunn.”

The agent bursts out laughing but gets up all the same, dusting his shirt carefully.

“Oh, and Benji ?”

“Yeah ?”

“Why did you fail the MI6 entrance exam ?”

A pause.

“Psych tests,” he grimaces.

Hunley tips his head back, face in his hands.

“Yeah. Figures.”

[galway-girlatwork]

Fandom: The Mentalist-AU

Rating: Mature-Angst. Smut. Enemies to lovers. One sentence mentions prostitution.    

Central Characters: Marcus Pike and Original Female Character

Central Relationship: Marcus and Daciana/Kira

Word Count: 2,080

AO3

Please do not copy my work. If you liked it, please re-blog and tag me. Please do not steal the mood board, it was a gift. I do not give permission to copy, translate, or post my work to any other platform.

Music inspiration: Le Castle Vania-Shots Fired

Inspired by the beautiful mood board created and gifted by the amazingly talented Freya Thank You Board post. @almostfoxglove Freya I utterly adore you.

SUMMARY:

The relationship between Agent Marcus Pike and Daciana, is a game of cat and mouse, taking Marcus around the world—London, Tokyo, Rio, and now Paris. Daciana taunts him, leaving clues that lead him to her hideouts just a little too late, fueling his growing obsession.

Their relationship is more than just professional; there’s an undeniable chemistry between them, a tension that neither can ignore. Marcus, frustrated by his inability to catch her, is simultaneously drawn to her presence.

Marcus knows that catching Daciana may come at a cost—one that goes far beyond the law.

Shadow and Flame

Marcus Pike had spent his life chasing shadows, but none more elusive than Daciana. The assassin was a ghost, slipping through his fingers every time he thought he was close. For two years, their game of cat and mouse had taken him to every corner of the globe. London, Tokyo, Rio—each location held a piece of her, a trace of her existence, but never enough. She always stayed just out of reach, taunting him with her brilliant mind and unnerving calm. This time he was in Paris, a lead from Interpol, which required more red tape than any government agency back home. He had her this time, almost a little cocky in his thought process. Hotel St. Germain was non-descript, set back from all the tourist traps of Paris, and he knew that is why she choose it. Once room 1002 was cleared, they let him enter, gun drawn, finger nowhere near the trigger because something in the back of his head told him that she wasn’t here even before anyone uttered a word. He should have been surprised but he wasn’t. Daciana was always two, three, four steps ahead. Sitting at the small writing desk, he ran a finger over lacquered wood. He could almost imagine here sitting here, having coffee and breakfast, waiting for a call that would take her to another city.  He was frustrated and pissed. The intel was good but just a little too late, his fascination and obsession with her growing. Pulling the phone from his pants pocket, he called the number the informant had given them, expecting a recording that the mailbox had not been set up, jaw dropping when she actually picked up.   

“Agent Pike, running late today?” She was more than just an assassin. She was a product of her father, mother long since dead, left to be raised to become lethal simply because he had no son to carry on the “family legacy,” or Brigăzi as her father once put it. Her skills were used for cleanup and something told her, she should have done away with the informant in France but she was needed home. A liability that would never happen again, unless it was Agent Pike. There was something about the games she played with him that gave her a high like nothing else had. It was the thrill of deliberately leaving clues for him, breadcrumbs that kept him busy but never allowing him to close the gap, not until she wanted to. Each clue felt like a personal challenge, an invitation to try harder, to get closer. “To say I am disappointed would be an understatement. I am guessing at this time you are in room 1002, wondering where I am now.”

In a way, he admired her, her skills and her ability to outthink him, mostly but admiration only went so far. He couldn’t forget who she was or what she did. “Daciana, are you forgetting Brazil? Wasn’t late then, was I?”

“No. I will give you credit for that one. Perhaps a half point since you only missed me by ten minutes, an oversight on my part. But today…You’re late by two days. Tisk tisk, losing your touch?”

He told himself that this was just another assignment, but deep down, he couldn’t deny that there was more to it. He wanted to understand her, to know her, and that desire was as intoxicating as it was dangerous. “You know eventually the cat and mouse game has to end. Why not come back to Paris, I believe a French prison is more suited to your personality, don’t you agree?”

Her voice dropped an octave, throaty, sounding almost sultry, like silk against bare skin. “Marcus, your lack of faith in me is disturbing.” Did she just borrow a line from Star Wars? Oh yes, she did, knowing it was one of his favorite movies. She knew everything about him, because what he didn’t know was that as obsessive as he was about her, she was about him. “Don’t you think it’s time to head back to D.C?”

“You know I am not going back until I find you.”

“Marcus, you know that you will not find me unless I choose it. As much as you would like to think is all about you, it is about me as well. It is about us. The little game we play. Are you growing board of mouse and cat? Which one are you exactly Marcus?”

It was the way she said his name, the way she said the word us. Warm, syrupy sweet, almost as if she was purring on the other end of the line. Closing his eyes, he let it sink into his subconscious, where he could play the conversation over and over. “Daciana, I am not in the mood for the games. I do not have the energy for you right now.”

“Oh Marcus, you wound me. That little blade sinking between my ribs, it’s filling me up with more than just blood. I think I may actually shed a tear so I will respectfully disconnect the call. J'ai hâte de parler à nouveau avec vous. Au revoir Marcus."

The game took an unexpected turn in Greece. He had been tracking her movements through Europe for weeks now, and the trail led him to Mykonos. What the fuck was she doing here and how was it he got a lead? He knew she had always been careful, meticulous, but this time, there was something different. A mistake? Perhaps. Or maybe it was another one of her games. Either way, he knew he had to follow up. It was there that he met her—not Daciana, not the assassin, but Kira.

She had grown bored, if that was such a thing in her life. The emergency at home was nothing more than her father having a tantrum over something she could have taken care of without having to go all the way back to Romania. Damaged product, she explained, was nothing that couldn’t be replaced, flesh nothing but a commodity. Shaking her head as she laid out on the lounge chair, the heat of the sun warming bare skin. Greece was beautiful, not her favorite place in the world, but it came a close second to Bora Bora and Turks and Caicos. She loved heat, sun and water. She should be scared shitless, leaving clues for him, extradition was not a joke but she was such a curious creature, wanting to know more than what reports could tell a person. If anyone did become interested in the woman by the pool, the only name they would come up with was Kira, an Italian on holiday. That was how she introduced her self to him at the bar. He looked frustrated, defeated and for a split second she felt sorry for him. The offer of buying him another drink wasn’t met with resistance, as long as she joined him. When the music started, it almost took an act of god to get him off his chair. Arms loosely hung from his shoulders as hips swayed with each beat, the pulsating of the bass caused pelvic muscles to clench. Taking his hands, she placed them on her hips before giving him her back, pressing her ass against him, she could feel his erection. He wanted her. Just as much as she wanted him.

Kira was warm, funny, and easy to talk to, with a smile that lit up the room. He felt himself relax around her in a way he hadn’t in years. He wasn’t one to normally talk to strangers, but there was something in the way she moved, how she didn’t make the entire conversation about her, in fact it was the opposite, letting him talk about everything but his job, only telling her he was from the East coast. When she convinced him to dance with her, he blamed the Ouzo, body pressed against his, he forgot about the hunt, forgot about everything but the woman in his arms.

Within a tangled mess of sheets, she did make him forget everything but his need to consume her. It was what he was doing. Consuming her from the outside in as his tongue slid over her clit, fingers sliding in and out of her wetness. Tiny mewling’s and whimpers escaped labored lungs, hips meeting the stroke of those digits before she came up on an elbow, hand grabbing the back of his head as she violently came against his mouth. Collapsing on the bed as he kissed her pelvic bone, body stretched out, thighs still jerking with the aftershocks, muscled arms spread her legs and in one motion, he was buried deep inside, strokes slow, hard, steady, dragging out the pleasure until she thought she’d go mad.

Lips wrapped around a hard nipple, teeth dragging across the sensitive tip before tongue caressed it, watching her face, bottom lip clamped between teeth as he raised his head, nose nuzzling the spot below her earlobe, inhaling her scent. “Again. Come for me again,” was whispered in against her temple, a hand going under an ass cheek, pulling her closer, thrusts a little harder now, feeling the familiar tightening. Fuck he thought, he didn’t want it to end but the way she felt, wrapped around him, walls clenching as she came for a second time, felt like silk wrapped around steel. He was so fucking close and when he asked where, teeth nipped at his chin before letting him know inside. That one word trigged his own orgasm, head thrown back as hips jerked against flesh, finally stilling, head dropping to her shoulder. “Stay the night with me.”

To say the sex with Marcus was amazing would have been an understatement but as the sun began peaking through gauzy blue curtains, she knew it was time to leave him. Slowly rising from the bed, muscles sore from the hours they made love, protested the movement, wanting to lounge just a little longer but she knew she couldn’t. Actions were quiet, quick, heels in hand so as to not wake him. Standing at the edge of the bed, she stared at him and on impulse she pulled her phone from the clutch and took his picture. Laying on his back, head to one side, the beginnings of a beard, no evidence of stress, wondering if he would think of her when he woke up. Emotions began taking up residence in the vacant space of her chest cavity and she knew she’d gotten too close. Turning on her heel, she slipped out of the room.

When he woke up later that morning, she was gone. No note, no explanation, just an empty bed and the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. His heart sank as reality crashed back in. The woman had used him, something he’d never had happen, and left. Grabbing his phone, he called down to the front desk, asking if they had seen her, the answer of course being no. Fuck. Getting up, he showered, replaying the night in his head, the countless shots, the sex and wondered how he could find her. She was just like Daciana, evaporating into thin air.

Two days later he was heading back to Lyons, the lead for Daciana going cold within those forty-eight hours. Sitting at the desk he was given, was an envelope, his name scrawled across the front, the note inside, written in a language that wasn’t familiar to him except for the name at the bottom.

“Marcus. Noaptea trecută a fost uimitoare, dar urmărirea continuă. Poate într-o zi ne vom întâlni din nou.

Daciana”

“Fuck,” was yelled out in frustration after he got it translated. Kira had never existed. It had always been Daciana. She had played him, used him, and now she was gone, disappearing into the wind as she always did. The chase resumed, but Marcus knew the truth now—he would never catch her. Not because he wasn’t skilled enough, but because Daciana was never meant to be caught. She was a force of nature, always one step ahead, always just out of reach. And as much as he hated it, a part of him didn’t want the chase to end. For Marcus she was more than a target. She was his obsession, his challenge, his impossible dream. So, he would continue the chase, knowing that it would never truly end.

[serenailith]

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.

[kivaember]

idk here's an o'keeffe/flatwell wip or smth not sure if i'll finish it but. HERE YOU ARE.

“...protests outside of the Unified Government of Earth’s London office continue as the fortieth anniversary of the galaxy’s most devastating ecological disaster looms and dominates the current political debates for this month’s elections. Requests have been made to dismantle the PCA’s indiscriminate blockade of Rubicon-3 to allow humanitarian aid to reach stranded colonists that have remained since the Fires…”

O’Keeffe listened with half an ear to the low murmur of the Global News, the large television mounted above the cafe’s bar as equally sleepy and heavy-eyed patrons sipped their early morning coffee. It was a small cafe, nestled in a little hole-in-the-wall along one of London’s busier central streets, and admittedly not one of O’Keeffe’s usual haunts. He wasn’t much for hanging out in social areas, and so had staked out a corner table with his back to the wall, a book in one hand that he didn’t even pretend to read, and an untouched cup of coffee near his elbow on the table. 

Usually, his early morning routine involved a lot of staring at the ceiling while smoking his way through a packet of cigarettes. Sometimes he’d have a call with Snail, who had the most unpredictable sleeping schedule known to man, and jot down the interesting gossip he’d read between the lines of Snail’s snide grouching and mutters of what inane tasks Arquebus HQ had meted out to the Vesper chain-of-command that day. 

O’Keeffe had a little black book of such gossip - not just from Snail, mind, but from the other Vespers, who had their own little fingers in their own unique pies, and from idle comments from the Arquebus executives, or the lowly janitors that mopped the floors and cleaned the windows, whispering if they had seen so-and-so do this-and-that. They were all useless titbits taken in isolation, but O’Keeffe enjoyed the puzzle of connecting all the dots and making an ugly picture from it. 

That little black book had the power to sink Arquebus like a torpedo would a submarine. O’Keeffe didn’t really have plans for it - not since he got an interesting call from an interesting client - but it was always good to have a dead man’s switch in the back pocket, in case anything happened to him. O’Keeffe had been in the corporate espionage business long enough to know that corporations were all too eager and willing to make hardworking agents disappear. O’Keeffe was petty enough to drag them down with him, if they tried. 

So, why was he here, in this little cafe where all the gossip was of no relevance to him whatsoever? Well…

The cafe door opened, and O’Keeffe closed his book as the new customer beelined towards his little corner seat, their gaze connecting. 

At a glance, the newcomer was a tall, lithe lady dressed in a dark peacoat with a thick, woollen scarf bundled around their neck. The coat stopped just a few inches shy of their soot grey skirt which came down to mid-thigh, letting O’Keeffe have a long, long look at well-toned legs clad in form-fitting dark grey stockings that ended in ankle-booted high heels. Their hair came down to their shoulders, dark brown with slight curls, and their eyes were partially hidden behind dark framed glasses that softened an otherwise angular face. 

It was, admittedly, a pretty good look, and one intimately familiar to him. O’Keeffe snapped his book shut and shook his head when the newcomer took a seat across from him. 

“The peacoat lady,” O’Keeffe sighed. “Really, Flatwell?”

“What?” Flatwell feigned obliviousness as he unshouldered the handbag he’d been carrying and set it on his lap. “I thought you liked this look?”

“Yeah…” O’Keeffe picked up his coffee to mutter into it: “Back when we used to fuck.”

[envihellbender]

The first morning Roman wakes up in his new life in London, far away from Waystar

Characters: Roman Roy (agent of the Web), Mike Crew, Oliver Banks

Verse: The Magnus Archives / Succession crossover

Content: angst, fluff

—

Roman had woken up in the Central London townhouse a thousand times, but not one of those mornings felt anything like this one. His private jet, one he’d stolen from his father, had arrived in at five in the morning and for the first time in his life, Roman woke up with no where to go. He didn’t have to get ready for work, in fact he’d been able to just sleep in. The digital clock showed it was two in the afternoon, when had he ever slept that late? Even when he was a teenager if he’d have slept past ten he’d have had one of his dad’s sadistic assistants pour cold water over him. Roman buried his face in his pillow, it was somewhat comforting he supposed. He grabbed the one next to it, and immediately calmed by the slight ozone smell of Mike. He pulled the top of the third set pillows, adding the scent of a cherry bakewell tart to his surroundings. Before he met Oliver he never knew death smelt so tasty. He shoved both pillows on his face, covering him entirely and cutting off his oxygen supply.

He managed a minute before he gasped and let them go, his breathing was heavy and rasping - like when he tried to get away with wearing a binder in gym as a teenager. It hurt his chest and his ribs ached at the quick movement but feeling something other than immense guilt that he’d betrayed his father and fear of inadequacy had helped.

“Morning, Ro,” Mike said as barrelled into the room. He fell on the bed and poked Roman on his cheek. He was wearing Oliver’s Depeche Mode t-shirt which drowned him, and a pair of light blue torn jeans. “How’s the moping going?”

“Am not moping. I’m-” Roman paused for a second. “Shut up.” He buried his face into Oliver’s pillow again before Mike poked him in the ribs.

“Oi. Stop being a fag.”

“I’m not! I just want to sleep-”

“Suffocating yourself with the scent of your boyfriend is very faggoty of you, Ro.”

“Fuck off. Wasn’t suffocating myself.”

“You were. Not that you were near death but Ollie senses these things, dumbass.”

“Oh. Fuck.”

“Gave him a bit of a scare. I mean. Not enough to stop him from making poached eggs but-”

“Poached eggs?”

“Yeah he’s making you a whole full English out there. With poached eggs. Bacon. Sausages. Baked beans. And I can’t have any until you get up so…” Mike poked Roman in the ribs again.

“Why is he- can’t the- you still have the Help here, right?” Roman replied, bewildered as to why anyone would make their own food if they didn’t need to.

“You know Ollie,” Mike shrugged. “He hates having everything done for him and he insists no one makes a full English like he does. Which is true.”

“I’m not hungry,” Roman mumbled, the thought of eating food right now made his stomach turn. The memory of his father shoving chicken wings into his mouth as he told him how he was selling Waystar, ripping it out from underneath him.

“Well, no shit. We don’t really get hungry but we do get low blood sugar and eating is good for your mindset. So-”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay but… I want a full English, a cup of tea, and a can of this new mango Coca Cola flavour so I need you get up. God. Not everything is about you, Ro.” Mike had originally intended this to get a laugh out of Roman, it didn’t quite work. Although he did get the smallest of smiles out of him.

“My mum used to make eggy pegs and a cup of tea with a fresh glass of orange juice every morning when we stayed over,” Roman mumbled. “Make a big deal how she did it herself.”

“What are eggy pegs?”

“Huh?”

“I’ve never heard that before what the hell are they?”

“Like, you know, a boiled egg with strips of toast-"

“Oh! Egg and soldiers. You mean egg and soldiers. Who the fuck calls them eggy pegs?”

“My mom so shut up.”

“Yeah well, your mom also fucked you over massively and was a cunt to you and still addresses thing to some bitch who doesn’t exist instead of to her son so… I think we can agree her opinion doesn’t count.” Roman watched Mike curiously as he rambled, if he didn’t know any better he’d think there was some real hurt and upset in his voice. He was protecting Roman. No one did that, he thought. He turned onto his side and wrapped his arm around Mike, burying his face into Mike’s chest. He felt him stiffen, and Roman expected him to back away, but instead Mike wrapped his arms around Roman and gave him a squeeze. The lightening scar on his arm warmly vibrating against Roman’s back.

“Aw, aren’t you two cute,” said a sudden voice from the doorway. They both recognised Oliver immediately, neither however wanted to look at their boyfriend who’d interrupted their moment.

“Fuck you, dick,” Roman said, not looking up. He could picture Oliver’s sweet smile and as much as it made his chest grow warm, he was hardly going to admit that.

“I finished breakfast- or brunch, I guess.” Oliver shrugged. Roman and Mike untangled themselves from each other and Roman stretched, he instinctively went to the bedside table to reach for his phone but it wasn’t there.

“Well, can’t eat without my phone. Where the hell is my phone?” Roman rambles, searching his pockets and patting down the bedding. Mike flashed a look at Oliver and disappeared before reappearing on top of the wardrobe watching with crossed legs.

“Oh. Erm. You gave it to me, when you got in. You didn’t want to get overwhelmed by messages and calls and stuff.”

“I mean, okay but I need everything that’s on my phone, Ollie,” Roman pressed as he got to his feet.

“I- yeah. Okay. Just. Breakfast first? Then you can… I just-you’re not going to call or ring-”

“No,” Roman interrupted. “Very soon my dad is going to hate me if he doesn’t already.” He let out a humourless laugh and a dry smirk, all he needed to do was go see Annabelle Cane and give her everything she needed on Logan Roy.

[laurolive]

Hilarious Journalism: A look back at the “Linda Tapes” The Daily Mail’s 2006 headline story (“Macca buys Linda tapes for £200,000”) is one WTH and SMH of an article.

Here’s a recap of what the “Linda tapes” were about:

In 1987-89, vegetarian writer and literary agent Peter Cox assisted Linda McCartney with her first vegetarian cookbook. He said that they made use of tapes to record recipes and ideas.

In Oct. 2006, Cox told the British tabloid The Daily Mail that some of the tapes contained Linda’s emotional confessions: she felt trapped in her marriage and considered leaving Paul because of his controlling nature. [Daily Mail 28 Oct. 2006: “Linda wanted to leave Macca.”]

The following week, Nov. 4, 2006, The Daily Mail reported that McCartney met with Cox and paid him £200,000 in exchange for the tapes. [Daily Mail 4 Nov. 2006: “Macca buys Linda tapes for £200,000”.]

The first article (“Linda wanted to leave Macca”) was ridiculous enough — a tabloid story full of sensationalistic tabloid language. (Paul’s eyes “were deader than any I had ever seen.” 😒 Was Cox meeting Paul McCartney or Satan? 😈)

But that’s for a future post. Let’s return to “Macca buys Linda tapes for £200,000.”

_____________________________

A headline spun out of thin air

Daily Mail.com Showbiz MACCA BUYS LINDA TAPES FOR £200,000 17:00 EDT 04 Nov 2006, updated 05:47 EDT 05 Nov 2006 “Sir Paul McCartney has secretly paid £200,000 to secure audio tapes which reportedly contain explosive allegations about his marriage to his first wife Linda. The recordings… were handed over to Sir Paul during an extraordinary cloak-and-dagger meeting in a Central London cafe. “Sir Paul bought the tapes from literary agent Peter Cox, who made them with Linda when he was co-authoring her 1989 book Linda McCartney's Home Cooking.”

Note how the article insinuated that the monetary exchange took place at the café when Cox handed over his envelope of (supposed) tapes. It took me several readings to realize that this was not actually stated at all. The Daily Mail was deceptively leading the reader to draw that conclusion.

If it was such a secret payment, how did The Daily Mail find out about it? Who was its source?

When was this money paid? Where? How?

Where did the figure of £200,000 even come from?

The Mail quoted plenty of witnesses to the two men breakfasting together at a London café called Eat on Wed. 1 Nov. 2006, as well as the details of their conversation. BUT it supplied no witnesses to any payment being exchanged, or to McCartney handing anything to Cox, or to the pair even talking about a payment.

The Mail presented a single witness who saw only the transfer of an envelope. We don’t even know if the envelope actually contained tapes (and according to McCartney’s biographer, it did not; more on that further on).

WTH, Daily Mail? You gave us more details about what Cox and McCartney had for breakfast than you did about where you got your headline.

🤦‍♀️

The headline reminds me of this maxim:

What is presented without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.

Just declaring out of the blue, without explanation or evidence, that McCartney paid Cox £200,000 for Cox’s tapes makes the declaration dismissible. It’s so devoid of confirmation that no reader can be expected to give it credence.

_____________________________

I thought surely The Daily Mail was playing an inside joke for its own amusement by posting this OTT piece.

So McCartney and Peter Cox had an “extraordinary cloak-and-dagger meeting in a central London café.” Could someone explain to me how two persons have a cloak-and-dagger meeting (read: furtive, secretive) in broad daylight at a café frequented by the public? How clandestine could it be where patrons could recognize one of the parties and overhear practically everything he said? 🤭

SMH. Leave it to The Daily Mail to carry on like it exposed high level espionage when it merely observed one guy pass an envelope to another guy over coffee.

After the second paragraph The Daily Mail ditched any pretense of having a report to back up its headline, and instead turned its focus to the REAL story: 20 paragraphs of McCartney complaining about what a bitch his soon-to-e ex wife Heather Mills was.

Well, it seemed like 20 paragraphs, brought to us courtesy of eavesdropping café patrons.

That’s when I was convinced that The Daily Mail fabricated this entire piece from whole cloth, with the staff writers particularly flexing their comedic creative writing muscles.

According to one of the eavesdropping diners:

"Paul told him he had been followed by a journalist that morning but had lost him by getting the driver to double back a few times to give him the slip. He said his driver was up the road keeping a look-out."

The Daily Mail can’t help aggrandizing its own reporters at McCartney’s expense. For all his caution to avoid journalists, McCartney failed to see that they must have been right under his nose. That crack team from The Daily Mail had stealthily infiltrated the café and were ready to pounce on unsuspecting patrons for quotes.

[a customer said,] "… they took the table next to me. Paul didn't seem to be worried about who was listening or he wouldn't have spoken the way he did.” “One diner said: ‘… the next minute Sir Paul was telling him all these things that left me unsure of where to look.’”

Good thing McCartney and Cox took a table out in the open. Good thing too that McCartney spoke loudly enough for fellow diners to hear him, or else The Daily Mail wouldn’t have had this story to give us. 😜

McCartney was reported to have said this:

“It's just my luck to have all these problems. I am really miserable, bullied actually. It just p***** me off, it is such c**p. I am being described as a b****** and it's just not true'."

What language! The Daily Mail writers must have had a good chuckle pretending that the publication for which they work is too refined to display low-class words like “pisses,” “crap,” and “bastard.” At the same time, though, it’s not so refined that it can’t regularly publish unverified hearsay.

Then we have this from a witness who also heard McCartney speaking to Cox:

“He said no one had told him what Heather was really like when he married her. He said his daughter Stella was the only one who warned him. Then he said, "She (Heather) really hates Stella".

And if anyone had warned him, for sure he would have listened and called the whole thing off. PMSL. 🤣 He didn’t even listen to his own daughter. Paul “Imma do what I want” McCartney brought this one on himself, I’m afraid.

“Last week it was claimed that Stella had to be restrained from launching a[n] verbal assault against Heather...”

There, Daily Mail, I fixed it for you. We know that’s what you really wanted to say, right? 😉

I thought no way would McCartney meet with Cox in public just to chat, let alone chat about such personal matters.

But…

When photos of the two men at the café surfaced, I had to admit that they must have had a personal meeting after all. Since that part was true, I guess the article couldn’t have been a TOTAL invention.

Maybe the conversation was trustworthy, even if not 100% accurate; I’m just not sure. I must say, though, that it warmed my heart to read about Paul finally regarding his 2nd wife with clear eyes and acknowledging that Stella was right. 👍

And please Daily Mail, I beg you, if you wrote anything else that was true here, let it be this quote: “One diner said: ‘They spoke about Linda at first and it was clear that both of them really adored her.’” ♥️

_____________________________

The Daily Mail article was originally accompanied by these photos of the two men together at the café, which have been reproduced on the web site Celebitchy [link]. The photos seem to support that the pair did meet in person.

Wed., Nov. 1, 2006. Paul McCartney and Peter Cox met for breakfast 10:00 a.m. (for half an hour) at the café Eat in SoHo Square, London. Peter Cox’s identity confirmed from the photo on his wikipedia page [link].

_____________________________

SMH to see that some people have brought up this tabloid fiction (Macca paid Cox £200,000 for tapes) in Beatles forums over the years and have taken it seriously.

Moreover, they maintain that, since Paul bought the tapes, he must be guilty and doesn’t want the truth to come out.

People need to go to the source and read the original article more critically and see it for the phony baloney it is.

The Daily Mail’s headline made no sense. As the article stated, Cox was already legally barred from making the tapes public or quoting them. What good would it do McCartney to buy the tapes? Cox could have made copies of them for all he knew.

🤷‍♀️

Again, WTH Daily Mail? It’s like you’re pointing arrows at your own report and saying, “This is so tabloid. Don’t believe everything you read!”

… and maybe that was the point.

In this particular article, and I’m sure others, The Daily Mail had a core story, which it surrounded with obvious tabloid elements, which I think were inserted to protect itself from libel lawsuits. The core story here looked to be McCartney’s unfiltered opinions on Heather Mills.

If Mills had sued, The Daily Mail could argue that the half-humourous tone of the piece, its unsubstantiated headline, and its implausibilities were proof that its show business section peddles unconfirmed celebrity gossip and is not meant to be taken seriously. It is strictly for entertainment purposes, and its readers know to take its articles with a grain of salt. Instant defense.

At least that’s one theory to explain this bizarro article to myself.

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And finally, here are 3 other sources that bolster the conclusion that McCartney did not buy Cox’s tapes

On their own these aren’t conclusive, but together they support the view that The Daily Mail‘s headline [link] was a joke.

No. 1

Peter Cox’s 2007 interview with John Buckman, which appeared on Cox’s wikipedia page 2007 to 2021 [link]:

“The ‘Linda Tapes’ “Media interest in Sir Paul McCartney’s divorce from Heather Mills McCartney resulted in much speculation concerning the contents of tape recordings made by Linda McCartney and Cox during their time together. Despite reports to the contrary, Cox has denied selling them and has called most press speculation wildly inaccurate.”

John Buckman (user name: johnbuckman) established Peter Cox’s wikipedia page on 19 Oct. 2007. He claimed that much of his material came from a private interview he did with Cox [link - Comment 1].

The quote was removed on 3 Dec. 2021 [link] because contributors are not allowed to use their own research as a source. See endnote 1.

No. 2

Philip Norman’s 2016 biography, Paul McCartney: The Life, states that Cox didn’t give McCartney any tapes when they met in person [Norman 2016, p. 771, search term: Cox]:

“The Daily Mail subsequently reported a clandestine meeting between him [Paul] and Peter Cox…. at which Cox had handed over a large brown envelope. According to the Mail, this contained audio tapes she’d [Linda] made with Cox on which she’d talked of her victimisation by Paul, and which he was now buying for £200,000 to prevent them being used against him in the divorce. 

“In fact, the envelope contained only a copy of Cox’s book, Why You Don’t Need Meat, containing a foreword by Linda that Paul had never seen.”

Since Cox didn’t hand any tapes over to McCartney, presumably McCartney didn’t pay £200,000 for something he didn’t receive.

I have to ask, though, who was the source of this “fact” that the envelope contained only a book? BTW, see endnote 2 about accessing Norman’s book online.

No. 3

This 2017 development cautions against trusting original stories published by The Daily Mail.

In 2017 wikipedia banned The Daily Mail from being used as a source, describing it as unreliable and citing its “reputation for poor fact checking, sensationalism and flat-out fabrication.” [Link] Although this ban occurred over a decade after Cox’s original allegations appeared in The Daily Mail [“Linda wanted to leave Macca”], it has been applied retroactively to Cox’s own wikipedia page. See endnote 3.

_____________________________

GOT SOME ENDNOTES HERE

(1) Peter Cox’s wikipedia page

Wikipedia rules: A contributor can’t use his own original research or self-published content as a source for any wikipedia entry, and certainly not in a living subject’s page [link]. BTW, if interested, here is the bio page for John Buckman, who created Peter Cox’s wikipedia page in 2007.

(2) Accessing Paul McCartney: The Life by Philip Norman (2016) online

The book can be downloaded from scribd.com if one signs up for a 30-day free trial [link]. 

The U.K. version, titled Paul McCartney: The Biography but otherwise identical, is searchable on the internet archive [link]. Enter a search term to read any pages containing that term. 

Hint 1: To read the pages preceding or following your searched item, enter the applicable page number as a search term. 

Hint 2: There may be restrictions on the number of pages you can view in an hour (“Limited Preview” message); just try again later.

(3) The Daily Mail’s poor reputation led wikipedia to ban it as a source in 2017. This also affected Peter Cox’s wikipedia page.

The sections of Cox’s page titled Involvement with Linda McCartney and The “Linda Tapes” (both viewable here), which had been part of Cox’s page from 2007 to 2021, were both removed by 3 Dec. 2021 (link1, link2) because the only source cited for them was The Daily Mail (specifically its original story about the tapes [link]).

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©️ laurolive, laurolive.tumblr.com, www.tumblr.com/laurolive, www.tumblr.com/blog/laurolive, 2024

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[sealyestatesblog]

Your Trusted Estate Agents in Palmers Green: Sealy Estates

The market for Real Estate is an extremely precarious process best done with a partner whom you trust. Sealy Estates is perhaps the best estate agent in Palmers Green and we offer first-class service and knowledge to all our customers. Our experience and local knowledge can be used to your advantage when it comes time for you to purchase, sell or rent a property.

Understanding the Palmers Green Market

Palmers Green, a lively and ever expanding suburb in the London Borough of Enfield. With its welcoming community feel, top schools and beautiful parks — so much new growth is headed to this area and, let's be honest now, the suburbs are really starting to look really good! The property market in Palmers Green has experienced huge growth over the last few years, meaning getting a foot in the door early is key.

As your local Palmers Green estate agents, we know how you can be kept up-to-date with market trends, property values and new developments in the local area. Each of our team understands the special characteristics of the local market, making it possible for us to deliver personal proposals without any necessities.

Why Choose Sealy Estates?

Expertise in Local Knowledge

A strong advantage to working with Sealy Estates is our knowledge of Palmers Green. We are seasoned estate agents and our area is like the palm of our hand, with all its hotspots as well as upcoming developments. We sit down and listen to what you need with helpful advice to help make informed decisions.

Comprehensive Services

If you would like to know how Sealey Estates may be able to help you with all aspects of your property journey. Our services include:

Property Valuation: For accurate valuations while selling or renting your property. Palmers Green estate agents at Anthony Webb always carry out comprehensive market analyses to give accurate and competitive valuations.

Marketing plans: Implementation of quality marketing plans to show your property that is appealing to the most people. We do this by providing professional photography all the way down to your online listings, which make your home stick out in a competitive market.  

Negotiation Skills: We are fantastic negotiators that go the extra mile to secure our clients top-tier deals. And we harass you to make it more useful because after all — we want the best for your well-being.

Client-Centric Approach

At Sealy Estates, we strive to forge lasting relationships with our clientele. We are very focused on you, which is our major point of difference and what we believe makes us a far more personalized service for your property journey. We realize that home buyers and sellers may experience emotional distress as they go through the process, which is why we want to ensure you both feel as comfortable and supported as possible throughout each transaction.

The Benefits of Living in Palmers Green

Deciding to live in Palmers Green is associated with countless good points. This district is well connected with transportation, so you can easily travel to central London and other main places. An abundance of local amenities — such as shops, restaurants, and recreation — ensures residents lead comfortable lives with every necessity within close reach.

Moreover, Palmers Green is a family-oriented locale with decent schools and plenty of greenery. The city boasts Broomfield Park and various other outdoor spots, but the park is suitable for community events, picnics, and broad outside activities. Coming to the right place, as we are estate agents Palmers Green and we can get you the perfect property which fits into your lifestyle and family needs.

Begin Your Journey with Us

Whether you are looking to buy, sell or rent in Palmers Green, Sealy Estates is here for you. We will guide you through everything with our dedicated and friendly team, offering advice & support from day one. 

Contact us today to set up an appointment. We spend time speaking to you, understanding more about what you need and want, then we tailor our services to your needs. You are the family of Sealy Estates with an expert estate agent in Palmers Green.

 Conclusion

The right partner in the field of real estate can be very important as It is a very competitive world and you need to make sure that your every move is making an edge over others. At Sealy Estates, we offer the best service as the leading estate agents Palmers Green. We offer global reach with an international perspective and our deep local knowledge and extensive services to help you throughout your property journey. Speak to us today about how we can help you move on in Palmers Green!

[empirechase1]

Letting Agents in Harrow: Expert Property Management by Empire Chase

Introduction

If you're looking to rent or let a property in Harrow, choosing the right letting agents is essential. Empire Chase is a trusted name in Harrow's property market, offering professional letting services to landlords and tenants alike. With years of local expertise and a client-centered approach, we ensure that your property needs are met efficiently and successfully.

Why Choose Empire Chase as Your Letting Agents in Harrow?

Empire Chase sets itself apart with a comprehensive understanding of the Letting Agents in Harrow and a commitment to providing top-notch letting services. Whether you're a landlord seeking tenants or a tenant looking for a rental home, we simplify the process with expert advice and support at every step.

Extensive Local Knowledge: Our agents have a deep understanding of Harrow, from popular rental areas to local amenities and transport links.

Tailored Letting Services: We offer a wide range of services, from tenant vetting to full property management, ensuring your property is in the best hands.

Client-Focused Approach: We focus on building lasting relationships with landlords and tenants, ensuring that all parties are satisfied with the outcomes.

Comprehensive Letting Services for Landlords and Tenants

As leading letting agents in Harrow, Empire Chase offers a variety of services to meet your letting needs:

For Landlords: We provide comprehensive property management services, including tenant screening, rent collection, and maintenance. We ensure your property is well-cared for, helping you maximize rental income without the stress of day-to-day management.

For Tenants: Our agents assist tenants in finding the perfect rental home in Harrow. With a wide selection of properties, we make the renting process smooth and hassle-free, helping you find a place that meets your needs and budget.

Harrow’s Rental Market and Investment Opportunities

Harrow is an increasingly popular area for renters due to its excellent transport links, diverse housing options, and vibrant community. Whether you're looking for modern apartments or spacious family homes, the rental market in Harrow offers great opportunities for both landlords and tenants. The high demand for rental properties makes it a lucrative area for property investors as well.

Benefits of Renting or Letting in Harrow

Strong demand for rental properties due to excellent schools and local amenities

Easy access to Central London via multiple transport options

Wide variety of rental properties, from flats to large family homes

Reliable rental yields, offering great opportunities for landlords and investors

Conclusion

Empire Chase is your go-to letting agent in Harrow, providing exceptional service to both landlords and tenants. With our deep market knowledge and dedication to client satisfaction, we make renting and letting properties in Harrow a seamless and successful experience. Let us take care of your property needs while you enjoy peace of mind.

[jenningsandbarrett1]

The Benefits of Expert Block Management in London

Companies provide block management as a professional management service. On behalf of a property owner, the best estate agent in London manages the apartment's upkeep. He is also in charge of the administration of an apartment complex.  

Block management has become essential in the UK. This is mainly due to increased residential property developments. This is especially true in large cities like London, where many high-rise apartment complexes need professional administration.  

The United Kingdom's housing industry is experiencing significant transformation. This is based on new laws frequently enacted by the Central Government and Local Authorities. The standard of life that tenants are afforded in our cities is a subject of growing attention. Thus, it should be no surprise that Block Management businesses are becoming increasingly crucial. They are the major role players who help in ensuring this is upheld. Let us look at the benefits of hiring expert block management services in London.  

Powerful Support for Financial Issues 

Access to financial and legal support when needed is one of the critical benefits of employing a block management service. This can reduce costs and mitigate possible dangers. It is essential to hire them when handling challenging circumstances or settling conflicts. A Block Manager can help you when needed because they have a wealth of legal understanding.  

Interaction and Tenant sourcing  

Hiring the best estate agent in London is also a good idea because they can help you with tenant communications. They can also help you with recruitment and screening. This is especially helpful if you don't have the time to finish these duties independently. 

Adherence to the regulations regarding health and safety  

It could be a brilliant idea to hire a London block management expert right now if you're worried about the health and safety of your block. They can help ensure your building is made and follows all safety requirements. They can also help you keep a check on the safety of the tenants. They may train your staff and tenants in health and safety.  

Increased Rent Collection Efficiency  

Hiring an expert residential development management service provider can also help rent collection go more smoothly. They can help you by offering a sophisticated rent collection solution tailored to your block. This can assist in making sure that rent is paid on schedule. It also helps in ensuring that there are no disagreements about payments. Additionally, it frees up your time so you may concentrate on other important tasks without being distracted by financial obligations.  

Reduced Repair Expenses  

Hiring the best estate agent in London also has the added benefit of maybe helping you negotiate better repair contractor prices. Since block managers have already built relationships with contractors, they should be able to negotiate the best repair rates. They will also be in charge of planning and completing the repairs, ensuring there is as minor inconvenience to you or the renters as possible while they are finished swiftly and at a high standard. 

Superior Tenant Quality  

Excellent estate management services companies will be able to find the exact renters who will, thanks to a clear and consistent screening procedure.  

Timely rent payments regularly  

For an extended length of time, rent  

Reduce problems in general  

Lessen the overall deterioration of the block  

This can be a significant relief because it removes the need to deal with challenging or problematic renters. All residents can thus enjoy a more peaceful and cosy living space. 

Reduced Legal Concerns and Hazards  

Hiring a block management services company has many benefits, chief among them being that they will handle almost all legal problems and risks associated with block ownership and upkeep. This includes duties like adhering to health and safety regulations. It also helps manage contracts and collect rent. Doing this can lessen the likelihood of encountering legal troubles. It also saves you from getting into safety hazards. Hiring the right experts will help you feel more secure knowing that your block is in experienced hands. 

Peace Of Mind 

One of the most significant benefits is the peace of mind of doing business with a letting services company. Suppose you entrust the management of your block to a qualified company. This also gives you confidence that everything will be handled properly. 

Conclusion 

If you seek a knowledgeable residential property management specialist, conduct the required investigation. You must also identify a supplier who can satisfy your requirements. You can be confident that your property will be adequately cared for. This is possible only if you choose the correct block management specialist. 

[astonchaseuk]

Discovering Luxury Living: Property Agents in Little Venice

Little Venice is a tranquil area comprising residential canals and a vibrant café culture that combine to give the area a unique feel of luxury living right in Central London. Laden with Regency architecture, greenery fronting pristine gardens, and an artistic charm, the place is inviting to home buyers and tenants alike from all over town. For those looking for unique property within this stunning location, specialist estate agents Little Venice provide a service that is second to none.

What is Little Venice?

Little Venice is not a place to live but a style of living. The quiet waterways of Regent’s Canal are home to colourfully painted houseboats nestled along the edges of its canal banks, where pretty scenic walkways are formed into a haven of peacefulness in central London. This tranquil atmosphere and the area’s cultural diversity are the right places for buyers with good taste. It enables one to make leisurely canal sidewalks, visit the world-famous Puppet Theatre Barge, and relax in cafés and restaurants beside the waterways.

High-End Estate Agents: Your Gateway to Luxury

When approaching the luxury property market in Little Venice, it is critical to be attuned to what is on the market and the area’s unique charm and potential. High end estate agents London are ideally placed to provide just this level of insight, with Aston Chase being one of the most established in Prime Central London. Over 35 years of experience in such prime locations have seen Aston Chase gain a much-valued reputation for excellence, discretion, and personal attention to all their clients’ needs.

These agents specialise in selling and letting properties typical of elegance and tastefulness in Little Venice, from historic Regency houses to modern luxury flats. What makes these agents is their commitment to service on a personalised level. They will take time to thoroughly examine every client’s needs to ensure that all the recommended property meets their lifestyle and investment objectives.

The Aston Chase Advantage

Choosing to go with Aston Chase provides customers with unparalleled local knowledge and contact networks that often offer their clients the most select property even before it reaches the open market. Their commitment to client satisfaction ensures that buying or renting a property through them is a hassle-free experience. Therefore, they are preferred by clients looking for luxury properties in Little Venice.

Live the Little Venice Lifestyle

Living in Little Venice is an open invitation to experience peace and chic urban living. Its dense cultural tapestry and tranquil waterways attract visitors, and high-end estate agents in Little Venice are your trusted partners in finding homes.

Contact Aston Chase to view the best properties in this most sought-after part of London and take the first step towards realising your property dreams for Little Venice.

SOURCE URL – https://wingsmypost.com/discovering-luxury-living-property-agents-in-little-venice/