Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If there was anyone Greg could survive a trip to a seaside cottage with—three days of cramped quarters, inevitable rain, and the particular melancholy that haunts British coastal towns in the off-season—it was Alex Horne, with his meticulous planning, endless patience, and ability to make even Greg's most acerbic complaints sound like affection.

That being said, his music was shit.

"For God's sake, Alex, if I have to listen to another minute of this experimental jazz nonsense, I'm going to throw myself out of the moving car," Greg groans, reaching for the dashboard controls.

Alex swats his hand away. "It's not experimental jazz, it's contemporary classical minimalism. There's a difference." His fingers tap rhythmically against the steering wheel, perfectly in time with the repetitive piano notes that have been driving Greg slowly insane for the past forty minutes.

"The difference being that one is shit and the other is..." Greg pauses dramatically, "also shit, but with pretensions."

The corners of Alex's mouth twitch upward. "You have no appreciation for the finer things."

"I appreciate plenty of fine things. Good whisky. A well-cooked steak. Silence." Greg emphasizes the last word pointedly.

They're heading south on the M23, countryside gradually replacing suburban sprawl. The decision to get away had been impulsive – the kind of thing that seemed brilliant after their third pint at the pub last night but slightly mad in the cold light of day. Yet here they are, two middle-aged comedians escaping London like they're twenty-somethings running from responsibility.

"Three days at a seaside cottage," Greg muses aloud. "What exactly are we meant to do there?"

Alex gives him a sidelong glance. "Relax? Write? Drink ourselves silly without having to worry about getting home? I've packed board games."

"Of course you have," Greg snorts. "Let me guess, you've laminated the rules as well."

"Only for the complicated ones," Alex replies without a hint of irony, which makes Greg laugh despite himself.

The motorway gives way to narrower roads, and the navigation system announces they're only twenty minutes from their destination. Greg watches Alex's profile as he concentrates on driving, noticing the slight furrow between his brows that appears whenever he's focused. There's something oddly comforting about being in a car with someone you've known for years – the familiar rhythms of conversation, the comfortable silences.

"This place better have decent beds," Greg grumbles, shifting his long frame in the passenger seat. "Last holiday cottage I stayed in had a mattress that felt like it was stuffed with angry hedgehogs."

"The listing said 'luxurious accommodations,'" Alex replies. "Though I suppose that could mean anything from Egyptian cotton sheets to just having indoor plumbing."

"Brilliant. Three days of shitting in a proper toilet. Living the dream."

The landscape changes again, trees giving way to more open views, and Greg catches glimpses of the sea between hills. Something in his chest loosens slightly at the sight of it, a tension he hadn't realized he was carrying. Maybe this impromptu holiday wasn't such a terrible idea after all.

"I brought whisky," Alex offers, as if reading his thoughts. "The good stuff, not the paint stripper you usually drink."

"Oi! I have excellent taste in whisky."

"You once drank something called 'Grandpa's Old Boot' because it was on sale."

"It had character!"

"It tasted like someone had set fire to a leather shoe."

"Which is precisely why I enjoyed it," Greg insists, grinning despite himself.

The navigation system interrupts their bickering, announcing they should turn right in 200 yards. Alex signals and slows down, peering at the narrow lane that appears between hedgerows.

"This looks promising," he says, in a tone that suggests it looks anything but.

"If we get murdered out here, I'm going to be very annoyed with you," Greg warns as they turn onto the lane, the car bouncing slightly on the uneven surface.

"I'll make a note of that in my posthumous apology."

The lane narrows to the point where Greg's convinced they'll be scraping paint off both sides of the car, but Alex navigates it with surprising confidence. The hedgerows suddenly give way to reveal a stone cottage perched on a small rise overlooking the sea.

"Well," Greg says, genuinely surprised. "That's actually quite lovely."

The cottage stands alone against the backdrop of the gray-blue ocean, its weathered stone walls covered in patches of climbing ivy. Smoke curls from the chimney, which Greg finds both charming and slightly concerning.

"Is someone already there?" he asks, pointing to the smoke.

Alex pulls into the gravel driveway and cuts the engine. "The owner said they'd light the fire before we arrived. It gets damp out here."

"Thoughtful. Though it does eliminate the traditional British holiday experience of huddling together for warmth while cursing a broken heating system."

They climb out of the car, Greg groaning as he unfolds his long limbs from the confines of the passenger seat. The air smells of salt and something green and earthy that he can't quite identify. It's refreshingly different from London's particular bouquet of exhaust fumes and desperation.

Alex is already at the boot, organizing their bags with unnecessary precision. "Big bag on the left is food, small one is drinks. The blue duffel has the games, and—"

"Christ, Alex, we're here for three days, not moving in permanently." Greg grabs his own overnight bag and what appears to be the alcohol supply. "Priorities."

The key is under a flowerpot by the door, exactly where the owner said it would be. Greg has to duck slightly to enter, a familiar indignity that makes him mutter under his breath about building regulations and discrimination against the vertically gifted.

Inside, the cottage is a pleasant surprise. Low ceilings, yes, but the living room is open and comfortably furnished with overstuffed sofas facing a fireplace where a small fire crackles. Large windows frame a spectacular view of the coastline.

"Not bad," Greg admits, dropping his bag. "Though I maintain this is still a bizarre way for two grown men to spend a weekend."

Alex ignores him, moving through the space with the focused attention of someone conducting an inspection. "There's a decent kitchen, dining area... two bedrooms upstairs."

"Two bedrooms? You didn't book us a romantic single, then?" Greg jokes, but something tightens in his chest as he says it. He busies himself examining the bookshelves to avoid looking at Alex's reaction.

"Would you prefer we cuddle? I know how much you enjoy that," Alex replies dryly, heading back outside for more bags.

Greg runs his finger along the spines of the books – mostly well-thumbed paperback mysteries and local history volumes. "I'm a very good cuddler, I'll have you know. I've had excellent reviews."

"From whom? The inflatable doll you keep in your wardrobe?"

"That's not an inflatable doll, that's my emergency podcast guest."

They bring in the remaining bags, and Greg watches with amusement as Alex immediately begins unpacking groceries in the kitchen, arranging items in the refrigerator with unnecessary precision.

"Do you want to alphabetize the condiments while you're at it?" Greg asks, leaning against the doorframe.

Alex doesn't look up. "Already done. The mustard is between the marmalade and the pickle."

Greg laughs and moves to the window, looking out at the waves crashing against the rocky shore below. There's something both calming and melancholy about the sea in autumn – beautiful but with an edge of wildness that reminds him of endings.

"I'm going to explore," he announces suddenly. "Coming?"

Alex glances up from his meticulous unpacking. "I should finish organizing—"

"The cottage will survive a few minutes of chaos. Come on."

There's a moment where Greg thinks Alex will refuse, retreat into the comfort of his systems and order. Instead, he carefully closes the cabinet door and nods.

"Fine. But if we get lost and die of exposure, I'm going to be very cross with you."

"I'll make a note of that in my posthumous apology," Greg says, parroting Alex's earlier words back at him with a grin.

The look Alex gives him is equal parts exasperation and fondness, an expression Greg has become far too accustomed to over the years. It shouldn't feel as good as it does to be on the receiving end of that look, but Greg has long since given up questioning why certain things about Alex Horne affect him the way they do.

They step outside together, and Greg finds himself walking just slightly behind Alex as they navigate the narrow path that winds down toward the shoreline. The grass is still damp from morning dew, and Greg can feel it soaking through his trainers within the first few steps. He should have worn proper boots, but then again, he hadn't exactly planned this trip with military precision like his companion.

The path is steep enough that Alex has to steady himself against a wooden fence post, and Greg notices the way his shoulders tense with the effort of maintaining his usual composed demeanor while navigating uneven terrain. There's something endearing about watching Alex slightly out of his element, away from the controlled environments where he typically thrives.

"Careful," Greg finds himself saying as loose stones shift under Alex's feet. "Wouldn't want you twisting an ankle on day one."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking down a hill, thank you," Alex replies, but there's no real irritation in his voice.

The sea air grows stronger as they descend, bringing with it the sharp scent of seaweed and something Greg can only describe as the smell of space – that vast, clean emptiness that makes London feel impossibly far away. His lungs seem to expand involuntarily, drawing in great gulps of the stuff.

When they reach the bottom, they're standing on a small pebble beach that stretches perhaps fifty meters in either direction before disappearing around rocky outcroppings. The waves aren't particularly dramatic – this isn't the wild Atlantic coast – but there's still something hypnotic about the constant rhythm of water meeting shore.

Greg watches Alex survey their surroundings with that particular expression he gets when he's mentally cataloguing details, probably already planning optimal times for walks based on tide schedules and weather patterns. The wind catches Alex's hair, messing it up in a way that makes Greg want to reach out and smooth it back down. He doesn't, obviously, but the impulse surprises him with its intensity.

"It's quite peaceful," Alex says, and there's something unguarded in his voice that Greg doesn't hear often.

"Were you expecting it not to be?"

"I don't know what I was expecting, really." Alex picks up a smooth pebble and turns it over in his palm. "I suppose I thought there'd be more... noise. Tourists. Something."

Greg looks around at the empty beach, the cottage perched above them like a solitary sentinel. "Disappointed by the lack of screaming children and overpriced ice cream vans?"

"Relieved, actually." Alex draws his arm back and skips the stone across the water. It bounces twice before sinking. "Though I did bring emergency supplies in case we get bored."

"Emergency supplies?"

"Crossword books. A deck of cards. That new biography of Churchill you've been meaning to read."

Greg stares at him. "You packed homework for our holiday?"

"It's not homework, it's enrichment." But Alex is smiling now, that small, secret smile that appears when he knows he's being ridiculous but doesn't particularly care.

They walk along the water's edge for a while, not talking much, just letting the sound of the waves fill the space between them. Greg finds himself stealing glances at Alex's profile, noting the way the gray light softens his usually sharp features. There's something different about him out here, away from the constant demands and structured chaos of their normal lives.

When they turn back toward the cottage, the climb up feels steeper than the descent. Greg's breathing grows heavier, and he's annoyed to realize he's more out of shape than he'd like to admit. Alex, meanwhile, seems perfectly fine, taking the incline with measured steps that suggest he actually exercises regularly.

"Show off," Greg mutters when they reach the top.

"I go for daily walks," Alex says simply.

"Of course you do. Probably have a color-coded workout schedule."

"It's not color-coded." A pause. "It's numbered."

Greg laughs despite himself, and the sound seems to carry further in the open air than it would in the city. When they reach the cottage door, he realizes he's reluctant to go back inside, to return to the contained space where the familiar rhythms of their friendship might reassert themselves and push away whatever this feeling is – this sense of possibility that seems to expand in the salt air.

But Alex is already opening the door, and the warm air from the fire draws them both inside like an embrace. Greg kicks off his damp trainers and flexes his toes against the worn wooden floorboards. The warmth from the fire spreads across his skin, making him aware of how cold he'd gotten during their walk. Alex moves past him toward the kitchen, and Greg catches a hint of his cologne mixed with the salt air that clings to their clothes.

"Tea?" Alex calls from the other room, already clattering about with mugs and the kettle.

"Please." Greg settles into one of the overstuffed sofas, sinking deeper than expected into the cushions. The fabric smells faintly of lavender and old books. He stretches his legs toward the fire and watches the flames dance behind the grate, letting the heat seep into his bones.

The cottage feels different now that they've been outside – more like a refuge than a temporary accommodation. Through the windows, he can see the light beginning to change as afternoon slides toward evening, casting everything in softer tones.

Alex appears with two steaming mugs, picking his way carefully around Greg's sprawled legs to claim the other end of the sofa. He's changed into different socks, Greg notices – thick wool ones that look hand-knitted. Of course Alex would pack proper hiking socks for a seaside cottage trip.

"Better?" Alex asks, settling back with his tea cradled in both hands.

Greg takes a sip and tastes something floral and complex – not the builder's brew he'd expected. "What is this?"

"Earl Grey with bergamot. I brought proper tea."

"Naturally." Greg studies Alex's profile as he stares into the fire. There's something almost meditative about his stillness, the way he seems to be absorbing the quiet. It's rare to see him this unguarded, without the constant low-level tension that usually radiates from his shoulders.

The silence stretches between them, but it doesn't feel awkward. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows slightly and making the fire seem even more welcoming. Greg finds himself thinking about how many times they've sat like this over the years – in green rooms, hotel bars, each other's living rooms – but always with the underlying current of work, of obligations waiting.

"This was a good idea," he says finally.

Alex glances over at him, eyebrows raised. "Are you feeling alright? You were calling it mad just this morning."

"I'm allowed to change my mind." Greg shifts deeper into the cushions, letting his head fall back. "Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't spend three days reorganizing the cottage owner's spice rack."

"I wasn't going to reorganize it." A pause. "Much."

Greg laughs, and the sound feels different here – less performative, more genuine. He watches Alex's mouth curve upward in response, and something warm settles in his chest that has nothing to do with the tea or the fire.

The afternoon light continues to fade outside, painting the cottage walls in shades of amber and gold. Greg realizes he has no idea what time it is, and for once, he doesn't particularly care.

"We should probably think about dinner at some point," Alex says, though he makes no move to get up from the sofa.

Greg stretches his arms above his head, joints popping audibly. "What did you pack? Please tell me it's not all quinoa and disappointment."

"I bought actual food. Steaks, potatoes, vegetables that don't come from a tin." Alex takes another sip of tea. "Though I did bring backup pasta in case you complain about everything else."

"Look at you, planning for my difficult personality. How thoughtful."

The fire crackles, sending up a shower of sparks, and Greg watches them dance against the blackened brick. He should offer to help with dinner, should at least pretend to be useful, but the warmth and the tea have made him drowsy in a way that feels almost luxurious. When was the last time he'd felt this relaxed?

Alex sets his empty mug on the side table with characteristic precision. "I suppose I should start cooking soon."

"Or," Greg says, not quite ready to break the spell of the afternoon, "we could order something. There must be a pub nearby that delivers."

"To a cottage in the middle of nowhere?" Alex gives him a look that suggests Greg has lost his mind. "Besides, I bought good steaks. Proper ones from that butcher near your flat."

Greg feels something unexpected at the casual mention - that Alex had gone out of his way to visit the shop Greg always talks about, had planned this trip with enough care to source ingredients from places he knew Greg liked. It's such a small thing, hardly worth noticing, but it sits warm in his chest anyway.

"Fine," he says, hauling himself up from the depths of the sofa. "But I'm helping. Can't have you doing all the work while I lounge about like some sort of kept man."

Alex's laugh is sharp and quick. "When have you ever been concerned about that before?"

There's something in his tone that makes Greg pause, but before he can examine it too closely, Alex is already heading toward the kitchen, and the moment passes. Greg follows, sock-footed on the cold tiles, and peers into the refrigerator over Alex's shoulder.

The man really had thought of everything - not just steaks and potatoes, but proper vegetables, fresh herbs, even a bottle of decent red wine that must have cost more than Greg usually spends on a week's worth of groceries. Alex pulls ingredients out with the focused efficiency of someone executing a plan, and Greg finds himself relegated to washing potatoes and trying not to get in the way.

"You know," Greg says, scrubbing mud from a particularly stubborn potato, "this is quite domestic of us."

Alex pauses in his herb-chopping. "Is that a problem?"

"No, just... observational." Greg risks a glance sideways. Alex's knife work is precise, methodical, each piece of parsley exactly the same size. "Do you cook like this at home?"

"Sometimes. When I have time." The knife never stops moving. "It's relaxing."

Greg tries to imagine Alex in his own kitchen, preparing elaborate meals for one, and finds the image surprisingly melancholy. "Bit lonely though, isn't it? All that effort for yourself."

"I enjoy the process." But Alex's shoulders tense slightly, and Greg wonders if he's hit closer to something true than either of them is comfortable with.

The kitchen fills with the sound of sizzling as Alex gets the steaks started, and Greg busies himself with opening the wine. The cork comes out with a satisfying pop, and he pours two generous glasses, sliding one across the counter toward Alex.

"To impromptu holidays," Greg says, raising his glass.

"To not dying of food poisoning from your cooking," Alex replies, but he's smiling as he says it.

The wine is better than anything Greg keeps in his own flat - rich and complex with hints of something dark and earthy. He watches Alex work, noting the way he moves around the small kitchen with surprising grace, checking the steaks, stirring something that smells incredible, managing three different cooking processes without apparent effort.

"Show off," Greg murmurs into his wine glass.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just admiring your domestic goddess routine."

Alex shoots him a look that's part exasperation, part something else Greg can't quite identify. "Make yourself useful and set the table."

They eat at the small dining table by the window, darkness having fallen completely while they cooked. The cottage feels even more isolated now, cut off from the world by the black expanse of sea and sky. Candles flicker between them - Alex had thought to pack those too, of course - casting shifting shadows across their faces.

The steak is perfect, the wine smooth and warming. Greg finds himself relaxing further with each bite, each sip, the combination of good food and Alex's quiet competence settling something restless inside him.

"This is quite good," he admits.

"You sound surprised."

"I am surprised. I've seen what you consider cooking when you're left to your own devices. Remember that thing with the chickpeas?"

Alex's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "That was experimental."

"That was inedible."

"You ate two bowls."

"I was being polite." Greg grins. "And very drunk."

The memory hangs between them - one of many late nights in Alex's kitchen, working through ideas or just talking until the early hours, sustained by whatever Alex could cobble together from his always-organized refrigerator. Greg realizes how much he's missed those nights, the easy intimacy of shared meals and rambling conversations.

Outside, the wind picks up again, rattling the windows more insistently. The cottage suddenly feels very small, very isolated, and Greg is acutely aware of Alex across from him, candlelight playing across his features in a way that makes familiar angles seem foreign and interesting.

"More wine?" Alex asks, already reaching for the bottle.

Greg nods, not trusting his voice. The silence stretches between them as Alex pours, and Greg finds himself studying the way the light catches on Alex's hands, the careful precision of his movements. When Alex looks up, their eyes meet across the small table, and something passes between them that feels different from their usual comfortable familiarity.

Alex looks away first, clearing his throat. "I should do the washing up."

"Leave it," Greg says quickly. "It can wait."

But Alex is already standing, gathering plates with unnecessary efficiency, and the moment - whatever it was - dissolves like sugar in water. Greg sits back in his chair, wine glass cradled in his hands, and watches Alex retreat to the safety of mundane tasks.

The cottage settles around them with small creaks and sighs, the fire in the living room still casting a warm glow through the doorway. Outside, waves crash against the shore with rhythmic persistence, a sound that seems to emphasize just how alone they are out here.

Greg drains his wine glass and wonders what exactly he's gotten himself into.

The sound of running water and clinking dishes drifts from the kitchen, punctuated by Alex's methodical movements. Greg remains at the table, rolling the empty wine glass between his palms and listening to the domestic symphony of someone else cleaning up after him. He could offer to help again, but something tells him Alex needs the busywork right now, needs the familiar comfort of restoring order.

Greg pushes back from the table and wanders to the living room, where the fire has burned down to glowing embers. He adds another log, watching sparks spiral up the chimney, and settles back onto the sofa with a satisfied grunt. The wine has left him loose-limbed and contemplative, his usual restless energy mellowed into something approaching contentment.

"More tea?" Alex appears in the doorway, tea towel still in his hands.

"Christ, no. Any more liquid and I'll be up all night." Greg pats the cushion beside him. "Come sit down. You've done enough fussing for one evening."

Alex hesitates for a moment, that familiar internal calculation flickering across his features, before crossing to the sofa. He settles at the far end, maintaining a careful distance that feels both respectful and slightly ridiculous given they've shared cramped green rooms and tiny hotel bars countless times before.

"The cottage is nice," Alex says, breaking the silence that threatens to become awkward. "Better than the photos suggested."

"Mmm." Greg studies Alex's profile in the firelight, noting the way shadows collect in the hollow of his throat above his carefully buttoned collar. Even here, even relaxed, Alex maintains that precise presentation that somehow makes Greg want to rumple him up a bit. "You did well choosing it."

"Lucky guess." Alex's fingers drum against his knee, a nervous habit that betrays his apparent calm. "Though I did read rather a lot of reviews."

"Of course you did." Greg shifts on the sofa, angling himself toward Alex. "Probably cross-referenced them with weather patterns and local restaurant ratings."

"The restaurant situation is actually quite limited. There's a pub about three miles away, it only opens Thursday through Sunday." Alex glances over at him. "But I think we'll just have to survive on my cooking."

"Tragic," Greg says, but he's smiling. The wine has made him bold, or perhaps it's just the isolation, the way the cottage seems to exist outside normal rules. "Though if tonight's any indication, I might actually survive the experience."

Something shifts in Alex's expression at the compliment, a softening around his eyes that makes Greg's chest tighten unexpectedly. They're sitting closer now than when they started, though Greg can't remember either of them moving. The fire crackles, sending dancing shadows across the walls, and the cottage feels even smaller than before.

"We should probably think about sleeping arrangements," Alex says suddenly, his voice slightly strained. "I mean, which room. The beds. Not that it matters particularly."

Greg bites back a smile at Alex's obvious discomfort. "Are you asking me to choose? How democratic of you."

"I just thought... you're taller. One of the beds might be more suitable." Alex's fingers have stilled against his knee, and Greg finds himself watching the movement, or lack thereof.

"Very considerate." Greg stretches his arms above his head, joints popping audibly. "Though I have to say, this sofa is quite comfortable. Might just sleep here by the fire like some sort of medieval knight."

"Don't be ridiculous." The sharpness in Alex's voice surprises them both. He clears his throat, moderating his tone. "The beds are perfectly adequate. I checked the mattresses when we arrived."

"You checked the mattresses?" Greg laughs, genuinely delighted. "What else did you inspect? The thread count on the sheets? The structural integrity of the wardrobes?"

Alex's cheeks flush slightly, visible even in the dim light. "I wanted to make sure everything was... suitable."

There's something endearing about Alex's embarrassment, the way he's trying to maintain dignity while admitting to behavior they both know is slightly obsessive. Greg feels that familiar surge of fondness, complicated now by the wine and the isolation and something else he's not quite ready to examine.

"You take good care of people," Greg says quietly, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Alex goes very still. "I try to be thorough."

"That's not what I meant." Greg's voice has gone softer, more serious. The fire pops, filling the silence that stretches between them. "You do, though. Take care of people. Take care of me, probably more than I deserve."

"Greg..." Alex's voice carries a warning, but his eyes haven't left Greg's face.

"It's just an observation." But Greg doesn't look away, doesn't retreat into humor the way he usually would. The cottage holds them in its warm embrace, cut off from the outside world, and he finds himself unwilling to break whatever spell the evening has woven.

Alex swallows hard, his throat working visibly. "We should probably get some sleep. Tomorrow we could walk to the village, see what there is to see."

"Always planning ahead." Greg's voice is gentle, not mocking. "Can't just exist in the moment, can you?"

"I find moments... unpredictable."

The admission hangs between them, more honest than Greg expected. He wants to push, to ask what Alex finds so threatening about uncertainty, but something in his friend's posture warns him off. Instead, he nods and forces himself to stand, immediately missing the warmth of the fire and the strange intimacy of the darkened room.

"Right then. Sleep." Greg stretches again, buying time he doesn't really need. "I'll take whichever bed you haven't already claimed."

"The one on the left has the better view," Alex says quickly, as if eager to return to practical matters. "Of the sea. You might like that."

Greg pauses at the foot of the stairs, looking back at Alex still sitting by the dying fire. Something about the image strikes him as lonely - Alex surrounded by the careful order he creates, keeping vigil over the cottage's temporary perfection.

"Don't stay up all night planning tomorrow," Greg says. "Some things are allowed to just happen, you know."

Alex's smile is small but genuine. "I'll try to remember that."

Greg climbs the narrow stairs, ducking his head under the low ceiling, and finds himself in a hallway barely wide enough for his shoulders. The bedrooms are small but comfortable, exactly as advertised. He chooses the one on the left as suggested, pushing open windows that let in the sound of waves and salt-tinged air.

The bed is indeed perfectly adequate - firm mattress, soft sheets that smell of lavender fabric softener. Greg sits on the edge and pulls off his socks, listening to Alex moving around downstairs, banking the fire and checking locks with methodical precision.

When Alex finally comes upstairs, his footsteps careful on the old wooden boards, Greg finds himself holding his breath. The thin walls mean he can hear everything - the creak of bedsprings, the rustle of clothes being removed, the soft thud of shoes being placed with characteristic neatness.

Greg stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about Alex just meters away, separated only by a wall and years of careful friendship. The wine is wearing off, leaving him clear-headed and uncomfortably aware of every sound from the next room.

Outside, waves crash against the shore with hypnotic regularity. The cottage settles around them with small sighs and creaks, and Greg closes his eyes, willing himself toward sleep and away from the dangerous territory his thoughts keep wandering into.

Tomorrow they'll fall back into familiar patterns, he tells himself. Tomorrow the spell will break, and they'll be just Greg and Alex again, two friends on a perfectly ordinary holiday.

But as he finally drifts toward sleep, the sound of the sea a constant murmur beyond the windows, Greg finds himself hoping that tomorrow might be just a little bit longer in coming.

Chapter Text

Greg wakes to gray morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the distant sound of someone moving about downstairs. For a moment he's disoriented, expecting his London bedroom with its blackout blinds and traffic noise. Then the smell of salt air and the rhythmic crash of waves brings it back - the cottage, the impromptu escape, Alex somewhere below making what sounds like breakfast.

He checks his phone. Half past eight, which feels scandalously late for Alex but perfectly reasonable for Greg himself. The cottage is warmer than he expected, suggesting Alex has already been up long enough to revive the fire. Of course he has.

Greg drags himself upright, running a hand through hair that's somehow become even more unruly overnight. The sea air seems to have given it ideas above its station. Through the window, he can see the coastline stretching away in both directions under a sky that promises rain later but holds off for now.

Downstairs, he finds Alex in the kitchen, fully dressed and looking annoyingly alert for someone who probably went to bed at the same ungodly hour as Greg. There's coffee brewing - proper coffee, not instant - and something that smells suspiciously like actual breakfast rather than cereal from a packet.

"Morning," Alex says without turning around, somehow managing to sound both casual and slightly formal. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead." Greg pours himself coffee from the pot Alex has prepared, noting the precision with which everything has been arranged - mugs in a neat line, milk in a proper jug, sugar in a bowl rather than straight from the packet. "You've been busy."

"I wake up early." Alex turns from the stove, spatula in hand. "Eggs? I found a farm shop yesterday on the way in."

Greg nods, settling at the small kitchen table with his coffee. The morning feels different from last night - less charged, more carefully normal. Alex has retreated into his efficient morning routine, all traces of whatever passed between them by the fire safely contained behind familiar domesticity.

"Plans for today?" Greg asks, though he suspects Alex has already mapped out their next twenty-four hours with military precision.

"I thought we might walk to the village. Have lunch at the pub, assuming it's decent." Alex slides perfectly cooked eggs onto a plate alongside toast that's golden brown and cut into precise triangles. "Unless you'd prefer to stay here."

Greg accepts the plate with genuine gratitude. The eggs are exactly how he likes them, though he's fairly certain he's never specifically told Alex his preference for runny yolks. "Walking sounds good. Work off some of this excellent cooking."

Alex's smile is quick and pleased, gone almost before Greg can properly register it. He busies himself cleaning the pan, movements economical and practiced. Greg eats and watches, noting the way Alex's shoulders have lost some of their tension from the night before, how he seems more settled in the cottage's rhythm.

"This is good," Greg says around a mouthful of toast. "The eggs. All of it."

"They're just eggs, Greg."

"Good eggs, though. Proper ones." Greg drains his coffee mug. "From your mysterious farm shop discovery."

"It wasn't mysterious. It was clearly signposted." But Alex is trying not to smile, Greg can tell. "I may have also acquired some local cheese. And bread that doesn't come wrapped in plastic."

"Look at you, going native." Greg pushes back from the table, feeling more human than he has any right to after the amount of wine they'd consumed. "Right then. Village expedition. Should I prepare for an ordeal of quaint tea shops and overpriced tourist tat?"

"Almost certainly." Alex hangs up the tea towel with characteristic precision. "But the walk should be pleasant. Three miles along the coast path."

Greg groans theatrically. "Three miles? You didn't mention it was a bloody hiking expedition."

"It's a gentle walk. The guidebook says it's suitable for all fitness levels."

"You bought a guidebook?"

Alex's pause is telling. "I may have downloaded one. For reference."

Greg laughs, the sound carrying more fondness than mockery. "Of course you did. What would I do without your obsessive preparation?"

The question hangs in the air longer than Greg intended, shifting from teasing to something that feels more serious. Alex's hands still against the tea towel, and for a moment the kitchen feels too small, too quiet.

"You'd probably starve," Alex says finally, but his voice lacks its usual crisp confidence.

"Probably," Greg agrees, and leaves it at that.

They prepare for their walk with the unspoken coordination of long familiarity. Greg finds his jacket while Alex checks the weather forecast twice and ensures they have enough water for what he clearly considers a minor expedition. The morning air is crisp but not cold, carrying the promise of a day that might actually stay dry.

The coastal path winds along clifftops that offer spectacular views of the sea stretching toward the horizon. Greg finds his stride after the first half mile, his longer legs easily matching Alex's more measured pace. The path is well-maintained but not crowded - they pass only a handful of other walkers, mostly couples of a certain age with serious hiking boots and determined expressions.

"Not bad," Greg admits as they pause at a viewpoint overlooking a small bay. "Though I maintain this qualifies as exercise under false pretenses."

Alex is studying the view with the same focused attention he applies to everything else, as if memorizing details for later reference. "It's quite beautiful."

Greg follows his gaze across the water, trying to see it through Alex's eyes. The sea is calm today, more blue than gray, with small boats dotting the distance like toys. There's something peaceful about the vastness of it, the way it makes their London concerns seem temporarily irrelevant.

"Different from the city," he says.

"That was rather the point." Alex glances sideways at him. "Escape from the usual chaos."

"Is that what you need? Escape?"

The question comes out more serious than Greg intended. Alex considers it for a long moment, wind ruffling his hair in a way that makes him look younger, less carefully composed.

"Sometimes," Alex says quietly. "Don't you?"

Greg thinks about his London flat, the constant demands of work, the way days blur together in an endless cycle of obligations and expectations. "Yeah. Sometimes."

They resume walking, the path curving inland through patches of scrubland dotted with sheep. The village, when it finally appears below them, is exactly as picturesque as Greg feared - stone cottages clustered around a harbor, fishing boats bobbing at their moorings, the inevitable gift shop with postcards spinning in the sea breeze.

"Right," Greg says as they descend toward the main street. "Lunch, then a strategic retreat before I'm forced to buy a tea towel with a lighthouse on it."

Alex's laugh is genuine, unguarded. "I'll protect you from the tourist shops."

"My hero."

The pub is called The Anchor, which Greg considers both predictable and somehow reassuring. Inside, it's exactly what a seaside pub should be - low beams, maritime memorabilia on the walls, the smell of fish and chips and beer. They claim a table by the window overlooking the harbor, and Greg settles into his chair with a satisfied grunt.

"This'll do," he says, scanning the menu. "Please tell me you're not going to order a salad."

"I was considering the fish." Alex studies his own menu with typical thoroughness. "It's bound to be fresh here."

"Fish it is." Greg catches the barmaid's attention and orders pints for both of them, ignoring Alex's mild protest about drinking before noon. "We're on holiday. It's practically mandatory."

The beer is local and better than Greg expected, hoppy without being aggressive. Alex takes a careful sip and nods approval, which feels like a small victory. Outside their window, tourists wander between shops while locals go about their business with practiced indifference to the seasonal invasion.

"Not bad, this," Greg says, gesturing vaguely at the pub, the view, the general situation. "Good choice of cottage. Good choice of... all of it, really."

Alex's cheeks color slightly at the praise. "It seemed like what we needed."

"What we needed," Greg repeats, testing the phrase. There's something about the way Alex said it, as if this trip serves a purpose beyond simple escape. "And what exactly did we need?"

Alex takes another sip of beer, buying time Greg recognizes as a delaying tactic. "Space to think. Away from everything else."

"Think about what?"

But their food arrives before Alex can answer, and the moment passes into the safer territory of commenting on the quality of the fish and chips. Greg doesn't push, though he files the exchange away for later consideration. There's something Alex isn't saying, some reason for this sudden need to escape that goes beyond simple holiday impulse.

They eat in comfortable silence, watching boats come and go in the harbor. The pub gradually fills with other visitors, voices creating a pleasant background hum that makes Greg feel anonymous in a way London never allows. Here, they're just two friends having lunch, nothing more complicated than that.

"Another?" Greg asks when their plates are empty, nodding toward Alex's nearly finished pint.

Alex checks his watch - of course he does - then nods. "One more. Then we should head back before it gets too late."

Greg fetches fresh drinks from the bar, taking his time to study Alex from across the room. There's something different about him today, a looseness in his posture that suggests the coastal air is working its intended magic. When Greg returns with the pints, Alex is staring out at the harbor with an expression Greg can't quite read.

"Penny for them," Greg says, settling back into his chair.

Alex blinks, refocusing. "Sorry?"

"You were miles away. Thinking deep thoughts about fishing boats and seagulls?"

"Something like that." Alex's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just... enjoying the quiet."

Greg nods, though he suspects there's more to it than that. Alex's version of enjoying quiet usually involves visible relaxation, not the subtle tension Greg can see in the set of his shoulders. But pushing has never been the way to get information from Alex Horne. Better to wait, let whatever it is surface in its own time.

"Fair enough," Greg says, and raises his glass. "To quiet, then."

"To quiet," Alex agrees, but his smile is more genuine this time.

They finish their drinks and begin the walk back to the cottage, the afternoon sun casting longer shadows across the coastal path. Greg finds himself walking slightly closer to Alex than strictly necessary, close enough to catch hints of his cologne mixed with sea air. It's a comfortable proximity, familiar from years of friendship, but something about the isolation of the coastline makes it feel different, more deliberate.

The cottage welcomes them back with the lingering scent of this morning's fire and the particular silence of a place removed from the world. Alex immediately begins puttering about, checking things that don't need checking, while Greg collapses onto the sofa with a satisfied groan.

"That was actually quite pleasant," Greg admits. "Though I maintain it was more exercise than advertised."

Alex emerges from the kitchen with glasses of water, ever practical. "You survived."

"Barely." Greg accepts the water gratefully, realizing he's more dehydrated than expected from the walking and the pub lunch. "What's the plan for this evening? More culinary adventures?"

"I thought something simple. Pasta, perhaps. We did have rather a large lunch."

Greg nods, settling deeper into the sofa cushions. The walk and the beer have left him pleasantly tired, content to simply exist in the cottage's warm embrace. Through the windows, he can see the afternoon light beginning to fade toward evening. The cottage feels like a sanctuary now, a place where time moves differently than it does in London.

Alex settles into the armchair across from him, and Greg notices the way he still holds himself slightly apart even in relaxation. There's always been something carefully maintained about Alex's personal space, invisible boundaries that Greg has learned to navigate over the years of their friendship. But here, in the cottage's intimate confines, those boundaries feel more pronounced somehow, as if Alex is working harder to maintain them.

"You know," Greg says, studying the way late afternoon light catches in Alex's hair, "I can't remember the last time we just... existed somewhere. Without schedules or meetings or any of the usual madness."

Alex's fingers tap against his water glass in a rhythm Greg recognizes as thinking. "It's been a while."

"Too long." Greg shifts on the sofa, angling himself more toward Alex. "We should do this more often. Get away from London, I mean."

"Should we?" There's something in Alex's voice that makes Greg look at him more carefully. Not resistance, exactly, but a kind of careful neutrality that suggests deeper currents.

"Why not? We work well together away from the chaos. Always have."

Alex nods slowly, but Greg catches the slight tension around his eyes, the way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Whatever Alex is thinking about, it's more complicated than simple holiday planning.

The silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable but charged with something Greg can't quite identify. Outside, the wind has picked up, rattling the cottage windows in their frames. The sound makes the space feel even more enclosed, more separate from the outside world.

"I should start thinking about dinner," Alex says eventually, though he makes no move to get up.

Greg wants to tell him to stay put, to stop organizing and managing and just be present for once. But he recognizes the signs of Alex retreating into familiar routines when something threatens to become too real, too unstructured.

"In a bit," Greg says instead. "The light's nice right now."

Alex follows his gaze to the windows where golden afternoon sun slants across the cottage's stone walls. For a moment his expression softens, loses some of its careful control. Greg finds himself memorizing the sight – Alex unguarded, present, the sharp lines of his face gentled by the warm light.

When Alex looks back at him, their eyes catch and hold for a beat longer than casual conversation requires. Greg feels something shift in the space between them, subtle as the changing light but impossible to ignore. Alex's lips part slightly, as if he might say something, and Greg finds himself leaning forward without conscious decision.

Then Alex blinks, the moment fracturing, and he's standing up with characteristic efficiency.

"Right. Dinner. I should see what we have for pasta sauce."

Greg watches him disappear into the kitchen, hearing the familiar sounds of Alex imposing order on culinary chaos. The cottage feels different in his absence, larger and somehow less complete. Greg remains on the sofa, trying to parse what just happened and why his heart is beating slightly faster than the situation warrants.

Through the kitchen doorway, he can see Alex moving with his usual precise economy, opening cupboards and checking ingredients. But there's something different in his movements, a tension that wasn't there this morning. As if their moment of connection has unsettled him more than he wants to admit.

Greg drains his water glass and considers joining Alex in the kitchen, but something tells him that space is what Alex needs right now. Instead, he pulls out his phone, scrolling mindlessly through messages from London that already feel irrelevant. The cottage's isolation is working its magic, making their usual concerns seem distant and unimportant.

From the kitchen comes the sound of chopping, methodical and soothing. Greg closes his eyes and lets the domestic sounds wash over him, mixing with the crash of waves and the whistle of wind around the cottage eaves. When he opens them again, Alex is standing in the doorway, tea towel in hand.

"Half an hour," Alex says. "For dinner."

"Perfect." Greg stretches, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles unused to coastal walking. "I'll work up an appetite by doing absolutely nothing."

Alex's smile is quick and genuine, erasing the careful distance of the past few minutes. "That sounds like a solid plan."

He disappears back into the kitchen, leaving Greg alone with the lengthening shadows and the growing certainty that this trip is about more than simple escape from London's demands. Something is shifting between them, subtle as sea changes but just as inevitable.

Greg settles deeper into the sofa cushions and lets himself imagine what it might be like if this were their normal life – cottage by the sea, quiet evenings, Alex cooking in the kitchen while Greg simply exists in the warm circle of domestic contentment. The fantasy feels both impossible and oddly natural, as if it's something he's been wanting without realizing it.

From the kitchen drifts the scent of garlic and herbs, and Greg finds himself smiling without reason. Whatever Alex is thinking about, whatever careful calculations are happening behind his precisely organized exterior, this moment feels exactly right.

Dinner is simple but perfect, the pasta cooked exactly how Greg likes it – not quite al dente but definitely not soggy. Alex has managed to create a sauce that tastes like it simmered all day rather than being thrown together from the limited contents of the cottage kitchen. They eat at the small dining table, a candle flickering between them that Greg doesn't remember seeing earlier. Alex must have found it in one of the cupboards during his explorations.

"This is brilliant," Greg says, twirling more pasta onto his fork. "You've missed your calling as a chef."

"Hardly. It's just pasta." But Alex looks pleased nonetheless, the candlelight softening the angles of his face. "Though I did manage to salvage those tomatoes that were about to turn."

"Of course you did. Can't have food going to waste on your watch."

They fall into a comfortable rhythm of eating and talking about nothing in particular – the village, the cottage's quirks, a podcast they both follow. It's easy conversation, the kind they've perfected over years of friendship, but Greg finds himself noticing things he usually doesn't: the way Alex's hands move when he's making a point, the small laugh he gives when Greg says something particularly ridiculous, the shadow of stubble along his jaw that wasn't visible in daylight.

When they finish, Greg insists on washing up while Alex dries, their movements in the small kitchen requiring a careful choreography that feels both new and familiar. Their hands brush occasionally as dishes are passed from sink to towel, each touch brief but somehow significant in the quiet domesticity of the moment.

"Fire?" Greg suggests when they've finished, and Alex nods, already moving toward the woodpile.

The evening has turned properly chilly, the wind picking up outside and finding its way through the cottage's ancient windows. Greg watches as Alex builds the fire with methodical precision, arranging kindling in a pattern that seems unnecessarily complex but proves its worth when the flames catch immediately.

"Show-off," Greg murmurs, but there's no bite to it.

Alex settles on the sofa this time rather than the armchair, though still with a careful space between them. The fire casts dancing shadows across the room, making the cottage feel even more removed from the world outside. Greg finds himself studying Alex's profile, the way the firelight catches in his hair and softens the lines around his eyes.

"What?" Alex asks, catching Greg's gaze.

"Nothing." Greg looks away, back to the fire. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"This. Being here." Greg gestures vaguely at the cottage. "It's nice, that's all."

Alex nods, his expression thoughtful. "It is."

There's a quality to the silence that follows that feels significant, as if they're both aware of something shifting between them but unwilling to name it. Greg reaches for his wine glass, taking a sip to occupy his hands, which suddenly feel too large and awkward.

"I've been thinking," Alex says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral.

"Dangerous, that."

Alex gives him a look that's half exasperation, half fondness. "I'm trying to be serious."

"Sorry." Greg sets his wine glass down. "Go on. You've been thinking."

Alex stares into the fire, his profile sharp against the flickering light. "About next year. The show. Everything."

Greg waits, sensing there's more coming. Alex's hands are clasped in his lap, knuckles white with tension.

"I've had some offers," Alex continues. "Other projects. Things that might take me to different locations."

Something cold settles in Greg's stomach that has nothing to do with the evening chill. "What kind of different locations?"

"International, for one. There's interest from American networks." Alex still won't look at him directly. "And some writing opportunities that would require more of my focus."

"Right." Greg tries to keep his voice neutral. "Sounds like good opportunities."

"They are. Potentially."

"But?"

Alex sighs, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that's uncharacteristically unselfconscious. "But it would mean changes. To our current... arrangement."

"The show, you mean." Greg finds himself oddly focused on the precise phrasing – our arrangement, not the show, not work.

"Yes. The show." Alex finally turns to look at him. "Among other things."

There's something in his expression that makes Greg's heart beat faster, a vulnerability that Alex rarely allows himself to display. The firelight catches in his eyes, turning them amber rather than their usual brown.

"What other things?" Greg asks, his voice lower than he intended.

Alex looks away again, back to the safety of the fire. "Our working relationship. The balance we've established."

"Balance," Greg repeats, testing the word. It feels inadequate somehow, too clinical for what exists between them.

"I don't want to disrupt things," Alex continues. "But I also don't want to miss opportunities because I'm... comfortable."

The word hangs in the air between them, loaded with implications. Greg considers what Alex is really saying – that their partnership, whatever it is, has become a comfort zone neither of them has been willing to challenge.

"Is that what we are?" Greg asks. "Comfortable?"

Alex's fingers tap against his knee, that familiar thinking rhythm. "Aren't we?"

"I suppose." Greg looks into the fire, watching the flames dance and shift. "Though 'comfortable' makes it sound like old slippers or a worn-out armchair."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Greg sighs, feeling suddenly tired in a way that has nothing to do with their coastal walk. "So you're thinking of moving on, so to speak. To bigger things."

"I didn't say that." There's a note of frustration in Alex's voice now. "I'm thinking about possibilities, that's all. About what comes next."

"For you," Greg says, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "Not us."

The moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. They hang in the air, too revealing, too honest for the careful dance they've been performing around each other. Alex goes very still, his expression unreadable in the flickering light.

"I didn't mean—" Greg starts, then stops. "That came out wrong."

"Did it?" Alex's voice is quiet, but there's something in it that makes Greg look at him more carefully.

Their eyes meet across the sofa's careful distance, and Greg feels something shift between them, subtle as the tide but just as powerful. Alex's expression holds a question Greg isn't sure he knows how to answer – or perhaps is afraid to.

"I don't know," Greg admits finally. "I'm not sure what I meant."

Alex nods slowly, his gaze still locked with Greg's. The fire crackles in the silence, throwing sparks against the grate.

"That's part of the problem, isn't it?" Alex says softly. "Neither of us seems to know what we mean. What we want."

The words settle between them, more honest than anything they've said to each other in years of friendship. Greg feels his heart beating too fast, aware that they're standing on the edge of something neither of them has been willing to acknowledge.

"And what do you want, Alex?" Greg asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alex looks down at his hands, then back to the fire, the question seeming to physically weigh on him. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady but quiet.

"Clarity," he says. "I want to know where I stand. With everything. With—" He stops, swallows. "With you."

Greg feels something unravel in his chest, a tension he's been carrying for longer than he can remember. "Clarity," he repeats. "That's what this trip is about, then? Finding clarity?"

Alex nods, a small, tight movement. "I thought... away from London, away from the usual distractions, we might..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely at the space between them.

"We might what?" Greg presses, needing to hear Alex say it.

But Alex shakes his head, retreating from the precipice. "I don't know. Figure things out, I suppose."

They fall silent again, the fire's glow the only movement in the room. Greg feels the weight of unsaid words pressing down on them both, years of carefully maintained boundaries suddenly visible in the cottage's intimate confines.

"I'm not good at this," Greg says finally. "Talking about... feelings and all that."

"Neither am I," Alex admits, and there's something like relief in his voice at the acknowledgment.

"So we're a right pair, aren't we?" Greg attempts a smile that feels too fragile. "Both useless at saying what we mean."

Alex's answering smile is small but genuine. "Completely useless."

The tension eases slightly, the moment of brutal honesty giving way to something more familiar, more comfortable. Greg reaches for his wine glass again, needing something to occupy his hands.

"For what it's worth," he says after a moment, "I don't want you to miss opportunities. I never have."

"I know." Alex's expression softens. "That's part of what makes you..." He stops, reconsiders. "That's part of why we work well together."

Greg nods, aware they're retreating to safer ground but unable to push further tonight. Whatever clarity Alex is seeking, it won't come in a single conversation by the fire.

"We do work well together," Greg agrees. "Always have."

"Yes." Alex's gaze returns to the fire, his profile sharp against the dancing light. "We have."

The conversation shifts then, back to easier topics – plans for tomorrow, a book they've both been meaning to read, memories of previous trips that skirt the edges of sentimentality without quite crossing the line. But something has changed between them, a door cracked open that neither can fully close again.

Later, as they prepare for bed, moving around each other in the cottage's small bathroom with practiced ease, Greg catches Alex watching him in the mirror, an expression on his face that's impossible to read. Their eyes meet in the reflection, holding for a beat longer than casual, and Greg feels that same shift again, the subtle realignment of something fundamental between them.

"Goodnight, Greg," Alex says when they part in the hallway between their rooms.

"Night, Alex."

Greg closes his bedroom door and leans against it, listening to Alex's footsteps retreat down the hallway. The cottage creaks around him, settling into night, while outside the wind continues its restless conversation with the sea. He thinks about Alex's words – clarity, possibilities, what comes next – and feels both unsettled and strangely hopeful.

Whatever happens between them, whatever clarity they find in this coastal retreat, Greg knows with sudden certainty that they've already crossed a threshold. The only question now is where the path will lead.

Chapter Text

He lies in bed that night, staring at the cottage ceiling. The old beams above him create shadows that shift with each gust of wind outside, like thoughts he can't quite pin down. That conversation by the fire has left something unsettled in his chest, an ache that feels both familiar and entirely new.

America. International projects. Alex being taken away from Taskmaster.

Greg rolls onto his side, punching the pillow into a more comfortable shape. The sheets are cool against his skin, the mattress just soft enough to cradle his large frame without swallowing him. He should be tired after their coastal walk, but his mind refuses to quiet.

What had Alex meant about clarity? About "us" versus "the show"? Greg replays the conversation, analyzing Alex's careful words, the things said and unsaid. There had been something in Alex's eyes when they'd met his across the sofa—a vulnerability Greg rarely sees in his meticulously composed friend.

The wind picks up outside, rattling the window in its frame. Greg listens to the sound, matching his breathing to its rhythm. Three miles down the coast lies the village they visited today, its pubs and shops now dark. Six feet away, separated by an ancient wall of stone and plaster, Alex is presumably sleeping, orderly even in unconsciousness.

Or perhaps he's awake too, turning over the same conversation, the same unspoken questions.

Greg's phone glows on the bedside table: 1:24 AM. He reaches for it, then stops himself. What would he even do? Check social media? Read emails? Everything from London feels distant here, irrelevant to whatever is happening between them in this cottage by the sea.

A floorboard creaks somewhere in the cottage. Greg holds his breath, listening. Another creak, then the soft sound of a door opening and closing. The bathroom, perhaps. Or maybe Alex heading downstairs for water. Greg pictures him moving through the darkened cottage, precise even in darkness, navigating by memory and careful planning.

Should he get up? Go downstairs himself under the pretense of midnight thirst?

No. Whatever is shifting between them needs the light of day, not fumbling conversations in a dark kitchen at half one in the morning.

Greg settles back against the pillows, closing his eyes. The cottage feels both larger and smaller than it did during daylight—larger in its shadows and creaking timbers, smaller in how aware he is of Alex's presence just beyond the wall. The thought follows him down into sleep, where his dreams are filled with coastal paths that never reach their destination and conversations where the words keep changing meaning.

Morning arrives with pale sunlight and the distant cry of gulls. Greg wakes slowly, awareness returning in stages. The cottage. The coast. Alex. Their conversation by the fire.

He stretches, his feet extending beyond the end of the bed. Through the window, he can see patches of blue sky between clouds—better weather than yesterday. The clock on his phone reads 8:12. Earlier than he'd usually wake on holiday, but the cottage has reset his internal clock to something simpler, more aligned with daylight and darkness.

Downstairs, he hears movement—Alex already up and about, of course. Probably been awake since dawn, organizing breakfast with military precision. The thought brings a smile to Greg's face despite the lingering unease from last night's conversation.

He dresses quickly in jeans and a thick jumper, running a hand through his hair without bothering to check the result. The mirror in the small bedroom confirms what he already knows—he looks rumpled and sleep-creased, his beard in need of a trim. It'll have to do.

The stairs creak under his weight as he descends. The cottage smells of coffee and toast and something else—bacon, perhaps. His stomach growls in response.

Alex is in the kitchen, his back to the door as he stands at the stove. He's already dressed, of course, in a neat button-down and jeans that somehow manage to look freshly pressed despite their casual nature. The kitchen counter holds evidence of his morning efficiency: coffee brewed, table set, everything in its place.

"Morning," Greg says, his voice still rough with sleep.

Alex turns, spatula in hand. For a moment, something flickers across his face—relief? uncertainty?—before settling into his usual composed expression.

"Sleep well?" Alex asks, turning back to the stove.

"Well enough." Greg pours himself coffee from the pot Alex has prepared. "You're up early."

"The usual time, actually." Alex slides bacon onto a plate with precise movements. "I thought we might need a proper breakfast. The forecast says rain later."

Greg leans against the counter, watching Alex work. There's something soothing about his methodical movements, the way he navigates the small kitchen with practiced efficiency. Whatever tension existed between them last night seems to have been tucked away behind Alex's morning routine.

"Plans for today, then?" Greg asks, taking a sip of coffee. Perfect strength, as always when Alex makes it.

"I thought we might explore the headland before the rain comes in. There's supposed to be an old lighthouse with good views of the coastline." Alex glances at him. "Unless you had something else in mind."

Greg shakes his head. "Lighthouse sounds good. More walking, though. My calves may never forgive you."

This earns a small smile from Alex. "Consider it training. For whatever comes next."

The phrase hangs in the air between them, loaded with meaning after last night's conversation. Greg studies Alex's profile, trying to read what might be behind the casual words, but Alex has already turned back to the stove, his expression hidden.

"Right," Greg says finally. "Training."

They eat breakfast at the small table by the window, watching clouds move across the sky in shifting patterns of light and shadow. The bacon is perfect, the eggs cooked exactly as Greg likes them. Alex has even found proper marmalade for the toast, the kind with thick chunks of orange peel that Greg prefers but never buys for himself in London.

"This is good," Greg says, gesturing with his fork. "Thanks."

"It's just breakfast," Alex replies, but there's a pleased note in his voice that makes Greg smile into his coffee.

Their conversation stays light—the weather, the cottage's quirks, a film they've both been meaning to watch. Neither mentions last night's more serious discussion, though Greg catches Alex watching him sometimes with an expression he can't quite read.

After breakfast, they prepare for their walk. Greg finds his heavier jacket, anticipating the wind on the headland. Alex, naturally, has already checked the weather forecast, tide times, and probably the migration patterns of local seabirds. He hands Greg a small rucksack containing water bottles and what looks suspiciously like carefully wrapped sandwiches.

"Did you make lunch as well?" Greg asks, peering into the bag.

"Just something simple. In case we get hungry."

"Of course you did." Greg slings the bag over his shoulder, oddly touched by the gesture. "Always prepared, aren't you?"

Alex shrugs, but there's that pleased look again, quickly hidden as he busies himself checking the cottage door is locked. "Someone has to be."

The path to the headland takes them in the opposite direction from yesterday's village walk. The terrain is rougher here, the coastal path winding up and away from their cottage through gorse and heather. The wind is stronger too, carrying the clean scent of salt and open ocean.

Greg finds his stride after the first steep section, his longer legs easily matching Alex's more measured pace. They walk mostly in companionable silence, broken occasionally by Alex pointing out features of the landscape or Greg making observations about particularly aggressive-looking gulls.

The lighthouse appears after about an hour's walking—a white tower standing stark against the darkening sky. It's smaller than Greg expected, more functional than picturesque, but the headland it stands on offers spectacular views in all directions.

"Worth the hike," Greg admits as they pause at a viewpoint overlooking a rocky cove. Below them, waves crash against dark stones, sending spray high into the air.

Alex nods, his hair ruffled by the wind into uncharacteristic disorder. "It's quite something."

They find a sheltered spot near the lighthouse to eat the sandwiches Alex prepared. The clouds are gathering now, the promise of rain becoming more certain. Greg watches them build on the horizon, dark shapes shifting and merging like thoughts he can't quite articulate.

"So," he says finally, when they've finished eating. "About last night."

Alex goes very still beside him, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "What about it?"

"The clarity you mentioned. Finding out where you stand." Greg chooses his words carefully, feeling his way through unfamiliar terrain. "With the show. With... everything."

Alex folds the sandwich wrapper with precise movements, taking his time before answering. "I've been thinking about it for a while. What comes next. The direction I want to take."

"And what direction is that?" Greg asks, aware his heart is beating faster than their moderate hike justifies.

"I'm not entirely sure." Alex looks at him directly now, his expression more open than Greg is used to seeing. "That's part of what I'm trying to figure out. Here. Away from everything."

Greg nods, understanding more than Alex might realize. "Away from the noise."

"Exactly." Alex looks relieved, as if Greg has grasped something important. "London is... there are so many voices. So many opinions. It's hard to hear myself think sometimes."

"And what does your voice say, when you can hear it?"

The question hangs between them, carried on the salt wind. Alex looks away again, out to the horizon where sea meets sky in a blurred line.

"That's what I'm trying to find out," he says quietly. "What I actually want, versus what I think I should want. What would make me happy, not just successful."

Greg feels something shift in his chest, an ache that's both painful and necessary. "And you think American television, on top of everything else, is the answer to that?"

Alex shakes his head, a small, uncertain movement. "I don't know. It's an opportunity. A direction. But whether it's the right one..."

He trails off, leaving the thought unfinished. Above them, the lighthouse stands sentinel, its white walls stark against the darkening sky. The first drops of rain begin to fall, light enough to barely register.

"We should head back," Alex says, already gathering their things with characteristic efficiency. "Before it really starts coming down."

Greg nods, though part of him wants to stay, to push the conversation further while they're removed from the cottage's intimate confines. But Alex is right—the sky is darkening rapidly, the wind picking up with the promise of heavier rain to come.

They start back along the coastal path, moving more quickly now as the weather closes in. The rain intensifies, driven sideways by the strengthening wind. Greg pulls his jacket collar higher, watching Alex ahead of him navigating the path with careful precision despite the deteriorating conditions.

By the time they reach the cottage, they're both soaked through, the last half-mile having turned into a proper downpour. Alex fumbles with the key, his usually deft fingers clumsy with cold, while Greg stands behind him, water dripping from his beard and hair.

Inside, the cottage welcomes them with sheltering walls and the lingering warmth of morning's fire. They stand in the entryway, dripping onto the stone floor, suddenly aware of how close they're standing in the small space.

"That was..." Greg begins.

"Wetter than forecast," Alex finishes, and they both laugh, the tension breaking like the storm above them.

"You should change," Alex says, already moving toward the stairs. "I'll get the fire going again."

Greg nods, watching Alex disappear up the stairs, his wet clothes clinging to his frame in ways that make Greg look away quickly. He strips off his own soaked jacket and hangs it on the peg by the door, then heads upstairs to change.

In his room, Greg peels off the damp jumper and jeans, his skin grateful for dry clothes. He can hear Alex moving about in the adjacent room, the soft sounds of drawers opening and closing, fabric rustling. The cottage walls are thin enough that he's hyperaware of Alex's presence just meters away, probably changing out of those rain-soaked clothes.

Greg shakes his head, forcing himself to focus on finding a fresh shirt. This is ridiculous. They're friends. They've shared hotel rooms on tour, changed clothes in the same vicinity countless times. But something about this cottage, this isolation, has made him acutely conscious of Alex in ways that feel both new and embarrassingly adolescent.

Downstairs, the sound of kindling crackling tells him Alex has already got the fire started. Of course he has. Greg pulls on thick socks and heads down to find Alex kneeling by the hearth, coaxing flames from newspaper and dry wood. He's changed into dark jeans and a soft gray jumper that brings out his eyes.

"Better?" Alex asks, glancing up from the fire.

"Much." Greg settles into the armchair, watching Alex's careful ministrations with the logs. "You're good at that."

"Scout training." Alex sits back on his heels, satisfied with the growing flames. "Some things stick."

Greg tries to picture a young Alex in Scout uniform, all earnest efficiency and perfectly tied knots. The image fits almost too well. "Of course you were a Scout."

"What's that supposed to mean?" But Alex is smiling as he asks it, settling into the opposite chair.

"Nothing. Just... it explains a lot. The preparedness. The sandwich-making. The general competence at everything outdoorsy."

Alex's smile widens slightly. "I was quite good at orienteering, actually."

"I bet you were." Greg stretches his legs toward the fire, feeling the warmth seep through his socks. "I was more of a... stay-inside-and-read-comics child."

"That also explains a lot."

They fall into comfortable quiet, listening to the rain against the windows and the fire settling into steady warmth. Greg finds himself studying Alex's profile in the firelight—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair is still slightly damp from the rain, curling at the edges where it's dried.

"The storm's getting worse," Alex observes, glancing toward the windows where rain streaks the glass in diagonal lines.

"Good thing we made it back when we did." Greg shifts in his chair, trying to find a position that doesn't make him quite so aware of the domestic intimacy of the scene. Just the two of them, warm and dry while the weather rages outside. "Though I have to say, your weather forecasting could use work."

"The forecast said light showers." Alex's tone is mildly defensive. "That was decidedly more than light."

"Coastal weather," Greg says with authority he doesn't possess. "Unpredictable."

Alex gives him a look that suggests he knows exactly how much Greg actually knows about coastal weather patterns. "Right. Your extensive maritime experience."

"Hey, I've watched plenty of films. I know about sudden squalls and unexpected tempests."

"Films," Alex repeats, shaking his head. "Well, that's practically a meteorology degree."

Greg grins, pleased to have drawn Alex into gentle banter. This feels safer than their earlier conversation, less loaded with unspoken implications. Though even as he thinks it, he's aware of the way Alex's eyes catch the firelight, the way his jumper clings to his shoulders.

The afternoon passes in a haze of warmth and quiet conversation. They raid Alex's carefully planned provisions for tea and biscuits. Greg finds a deck of cards in one of the cottage's drawers, and they play a few hands of gin rummy with the kind of competitive intensity that only long friendship can sustain. Alex wins more often than not, his mathematical mind perfectly suited to card counting, but Greg manages to take a few games through sheer bloody-minded persistence.

"Another?" Alex asks, gathering the cards after his latest victory.

Greg checks the time on his phone. Nearly five o'clock, and the storm shows no signs of abating. If anything, the wind has picked up, rattling the cottage's old window frames. "Why not? Not like we're going anywhere."

As Alex shuffles with practiced efficiency, Greg finds himself watching the movements of his hands. Long fingers, precise motions, everything controlled and deliberate. The same hands that organize his life with such meticulous care, that write emails in perfect prose, that—

"Greg?"

He blinks, realizing Alex has finished dealing and is waiting for him to pick up his cards. "Sorry. Miles away."

Alex's expression is curious but he doesn't push. "The weather's quite hypnotic, isn't it? All that noise."

Greg nods, though the weather isn't what had captured his attention. He picks up his cards, trying to focus on the game rather than the way Alex's thumb traces the edge of his own hand while he considers his moves.

They're three games in when the lights flicker. Both men pause, cards suspended mid-play, as the cottage's electrical system struggles against the storm. The lights steady, then flicker again.

"That's not ominous at all," Greg mutters.

As if summoned by his words, the lights go out completely, plunging them into the warm orange glow of firelight. The sudden shift from electric brightness to flame-lit intimacy makes the cottage feel smaller, more enclosed. More romantic, Greg's traitorous mind supplies before he can stop it.

"Well," Alex says calmly, setting down his cards. "I suppose that's the end of gin rummy."

"You don't happen to have emergency candles in that bag of tricks, do you?"

"Actually..." Alex rises from his chair, moving with surprising confidence in the dim light. "I saw some in the kitchen earlier. And matches."

Of course he did. Greg listens to Alex moving about in the kitchen, opening drawers with the kind of systematic thoroughness that suggests he'd mentally catalogued the cottage's contents within hours of arrival. The sounds are oddly domestic, comforting in a way that makes Greg's chest feel tight.

Alex returns with several thick candles and a box of matches, setting them on the coffee table between their chairs. The additional light pushes back the shadows but somehow makes the atmosphere more intimate rather than less. The cottage feels completely cut off from the world now, just the two of them in their circle of warmth and light while the storm rages outside.

"This is cozy," Greg says, then immediately regrets the word choice. Cozy implies things he's trying not to think about.

"The power will probably come back soon," Alex replies, but he doesn't sound particularly concerned about it. He's settled back into his chair, his face golden in the candlelight, looking more relaxed than Greg has seen him in months.

"No rush," Greg finds himself saying. "It's nice. Peaceful."

Alex nods, his gaze drifting to the fire. "It is. Different from London."

"Very different." Greg watches the play of light and shadow across Alex's features. "No deadlines. No meetings. No one needing anything from us."

"Just us," Alex says quietly, and something in his tone makes Greg's pulse quicken.

"Just us," he agrees, the words carrying more weight than they should.The silence stretches between them, filled with the sound of rain against glass and wood crackling in the grate. Greg feels the weight of those two words—just us—settling in his chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through thoughts he's been trying to keep steady.

He shifts in his chair, the leather creaking softly. The candlelight flickers across Alex's face, catching the sharp line of his cheekbone, the way his lashes cast shadows when he blinks. Greg has seen Alex in artificial light countless times—harsh studio lighting, fluorescent office bulbs, the blue glow of laptop screens during late-night work sessions. But this warm, golden light transforms him into someone softer, more approachable. More beautiful, if Greg's being honest with himself.

Which he's trying very hard not to be.

"I should probably check if there's a torch somewhere," Alex says, though he makes no move to get up. "In case the fire dies down."

"Probably," Greg agrees, equally stationary. The practical part of his brain knows Alex is right—they should locate emergency supplies, maybe try to figure out when the power might return. But the rest of him wants to stay exactly here, in this bubble of warmth and flickering light, watching the way Alex's fingers absently trace patterns on the arm of his chair.

Thunder rolls overhead, a deep rumble that seems to shake the cottage's old bones. Alex glances toward the ceiling, his expression thoughtful rather than concerned.

"It's really coming down," Greg observes, stating the obvious because the alternative is sitting in loaded silence, and he's not sure he can handle much more of that.

"Mmm." Alex's attention drifts back to the fire. "We might be stuck here for a while. If the roads flood."

The possibility should worry Greg—they're supposed to drive back to London tomorrow evening. But instead, he feels something that might be relief. More time here, away from everything. More time with Alex in this strange, suspended intimacy that feels nothing like their usual friendship.

"Would that be so terrible?" The question slips out before Greg can stop it, carrying more vulnerability than he intended.

Alex looks at him directly, and Greg catches something unguarded in his expression before it disappears behind his usual careful composure. "No," Alex says quietly. "I don't think it would be."

The admission hangs between them, honest in a way that makes Greg's throat feel tight. He wants to ask what Alex means, wants to push for more, but something holds him back. Maybe it's the fragility of the moment, the sense that pressing too hard might shatter whatever is building between them.

Instead, he reaches for safer ground. "Good thing you packed enough food to survive a siege."

Alex's mouth quirks upward. "I may have overestimated our consumption needs slightly."

"Slightly." Greg grins, grateful for the return to familiar territory. "I think you brought enough provisions to feed a small army. For a month."

"Better too much than too little."

"Very Boy Scout of you."

"I was an excellent Boy Scout," Alex says with mock dignity, and Greg laughs, the sound warm in the candlelit space.

"I'm sure you were. Probably had the neatest merit badge sash in the troop."

"Obviously." Alex's smile widens, real and unguarded. "Color-coordinated and arranged by category."

Greg shakes his head, charmed despite himself. "Of course they were."

The easy banter feels good, familiar, but underneath it Greg can sense something else—a current of awareness that wasn't there before this cottage, before their conversation by the fire last night, before this afternoon's rain-soaked walk and the way Alex had looked at him when they'd stood dripping in the entryway.

Alex rises from his chair, moving to add another log to the fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows on the walls. When he turns back, his face is flushed from the heat, his hair slightly mussed from running his fingers through it.

"I should see about dinner," he says, though it's barely past six. "With the power out, we'll need to use what's in the fridge before it spoils."

Greg nods, though the thought of Alex bustling around the small kitchen, efficient and competent as always, makes something flutter in his chest. "Need help?"

"I can manage." Alex pauses, seeming to reconsider. "Actually, yes. If you don't mind chopping vegetables by candlelight."

"I think I can handle that." Greg stands, following Alex toward the kitchen. The cottage feels different in the darkness, smaller and more intimate. Their shoulders brush as they navigate the narrow hallway, and Greg catches a hint of Alex's scent—soap and something warmer, something distinctly him.

In the kitchen, Alex lights more candles, arranging them with his usual precision to provide maximum illumination. The flickering light transforms the simple space into something almost medieval, all golden warmth and dancing shadows.

"Right," Alex says, opening the fridge and surveying its contents with the focused attention he usually reserves for production schedules. "We've got chicken, vegetables, pasta. Nothing too complicated, given the circumstances."

He begins pulling ingredients from the fridge, setting them on the counter with methodical efficiency. Greg watches him work, noting the way Alex's hands move with unconscious grace, the way he automatically organizes everything into neat groups.

"Onions?" Alex asks, holding up a mesh bag.

"I can do onions." Greg accepts the bag and a knife, positioning himself at the small counter beside Alex. The space forces them close together, their elbows bumping occasionally as they work.

Greg focuses on his chopping, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from Alex's body, the soft sounds he makes as he works—little huffs of concentration, the quiet thud of his knife against the cutting board. It's surprisingly intimate, this simple domestic task performed by candlelight while the storm rages outside.

"How's this?" Greg asks, gesturing to his pile of roughly chopped onions.

Alex glances over, and Greg catches him trying not to wince at the uneven pieces. "Perfect," Alex lies diplomatically.

"You're a terrible liar." Greg grins. "Go on, fix them. I know you want to."

For a moment, Alex looks like he might protest. Then his need for precision wins out, and he reaches over to adjust Greg's chopping. His fingers brush Greg's as he demonstrates the proper technique, and Greg feels the contact like a small electric shock.

"Like this," Alex murmurs, his voice closer to Greg's ear than it needs to be. "Uniform pieces cook more evenly."

Greg nods, not trusting his voice. Alex's hand covers his briefly, guiding the knife, and Greg has to concentrate very hard on not doing something stupid like turning toward him, closing the small distance between them.

Alex steps back, returning to his own prep work, and Greg can breathe again. He focuses on the onions with renewed determination, trying to match Alex's precise cuts.

They work in companionable quiet, the only sounds the soft chop of knives and the storm outside. Greg finds himself stealing glances at Alex—the concentration on his face as he works, the way the candlelight catches the movement of his hands, the soft curve of his mouth when he's thinking.

"There," Alex says finally, surveying their assembled ingredients. "This should do nicely."

Greg looks at the neat piles of vegetables, the chicken Alex has seasoned and prepared for cooking. Even by candlelight, in a power outage, Alex has managed to organize everything with professional efficiency.

"You're remarkable, you know that?" The words slip out before Greg can stop them, carrying more sincerity than he intended.

Alex goes still, his hands pausing in their motion toward the stove. "It's just dinner, Greg."

"It's not, though." Greg turns to face him fully, emboldened by the darkness and the isolation and the strange intimacy of the evening. "You make everything better. Easier. You take care of things. Of people. Of me."

Alex's expression is unreadable in the flickering light. "That's what friends do."

"Is it?" Greg asks quietly. "Because I don't think I take care of you nearly as well as you take care of me."

Something shifts in Alex's face—surprise, maybe, or vulnerability quickly hidden. "You do more than you realize."

"Do I?"

Alex doesn't answer immediately, busying himself with lighting the gas burner. But Greg catches the way his hands tremble slightly, the careful way he's not quite meeting Greg's eyes.

"We should get this started," Alex says finally. "Before the vegetables wilt."

Greg recognizes the deflection for what it is, but he doesn't push. Not yet. Instead, he helps Alex navigate cooking by candlelight, holding flames steady while Alex works, passing ingredients as needed. The process takes longer than it would normally, but neither of them seems to mind. If anything, the enforced slowness feels luxurious, meditative.

The kitchen fills with the scent of garlic and herbs, onions softening in oil, chicken browning in the pan. Greg finds himself watching Alex cook with the same fascination he might watch a master craftsman at work. Every movement is deliberate, practiced, efficient even under these circumstances.

"Where did you learn to cook like this?" Greg asks, accepting a wooden spoon to taste the sauce Alex is building.

"Necessity, mostly." Alex adjusts the seasoning with a careful hand. "Living alone, eating properly. It seemed important."

The sauce is perfect, of course—rich and complex despite the simple ingredients. Greg makes an appreciative sound that draws a pleased look from Alex.

"Good?" Alex asks.

"Incredible." Greg hands back the spoon, their fingers brushing again in the exchange. "You're wasted in television. You should be running a restaurant."

Alex laughs, the sound warm in the candlelit kitchen. "I don't think I have the temperament for restaurant work."

"Too much chaos?"

"Too many variables I can't control." Alex stirs the sauce thoughtfully. "I like being able to plan things properly. Anticipate problems."

Greg nods, understanding. It's such an Alex answer—honest about his need for order, his discomfort with uncertainty. It makes Greg want to create a world where Alex never has to worry about chaos, where everything runs exactly as smoothly as he needs it to.

The thought surprises him with its intensity, its protectiveness. When did his feelings for Alex become so fierce, so encompassing? When did friendship transform into this ache in his chest every time Alex smiles, this desperate desire to make Alex's life easier, better, happier?

"Greg?" Alex is looking at him with concern. "You've gone very quiet."

"Just thinking." Greg manages a smile. "About chaos. And control. And how some of the best things happen when you can't plan for them."

Alex's stirring slows. "Such as?"

"This," Greg gestures around the candlelit kitchen, at their impromptu dinner preparation, at the storm raging outside. "Power outages and emergency cooking. Not exactly what you had scheduled for tonight."

"No," Alex agrees quietly. "But not unpleasant."

"Not unpleasant," Greg repeats, and something in his tone makes Alex look at him more closely.

For a moment, they simply look at each other across the small kitchen, candlelight flickering between them, the scent of dinner filling the air. Greg feels balanced on the edge of something—a confession, a question, a step forward into territory they've never explored. The moment stretches, full of possibility and terror in equal measure.

Then the timer Alex set goes off, breaking the spell, and Alex turns back to the stove with practiced efficiency.

"Perfect timing," Alex murmurs, though Greg catches the slight breathiness in his voice that suggests the moment affected him too.

They finish the cooking in relative silence, but it's a different quality of quiet now—charged with awareness, with things hovering just beneath the surface of their careful politeness. Greg helps where he can, following Alex's gentle directions, trying not to notice how often their hands brush as they navigate the small space.

When Alex declares dinner ready, they carry plates and candles to the small dining table by the window. The storm has intensified further, rain lashing against the glass in sheets that obscure any view of the outside world. Greg finds himself grateful for the cottage's solid walls, for the warmth and light that cocoon them against the wildness beyond.

"This is exceptional," Greg says after the first bite, and means it. The chicken is perfectly tender, the sauce rich and complex despite being prepared under emergency conditions.

Alex looks pleased at the praise, some of his earlier tension easing. "Not bad for disaster cooking."

"Not bad?" Greg shakes his head. "Alex, this is restaurant quality. I'm serious about the career change suggestion."

"I'll keep it in mind," Alex says dryly, but he's smiling as he cuts another piece of chicken.

They eat mostly in comfortable silence, the candlelight creating an intimacy that feels both natural and charged with possibility. Greg finds himself cataloguing details: the way Alex chews thoughtfully, considering each bite; how he automatically refills Greg's water glass without being asked; the soft sound of satisfaction he makes when he tastes something particularly good.

Outside, thunder crashes overhead with enough force to rattle the cottage's old windows. Both men glance up instinctively, then at each other.

"That was close," Greg observes.

"Very." Alex sets down his fork, listening to the continued rumble. "I hope the roof holds."

As if the rain was listening to their every word, they hear a new sound—a steady dripping from somewhere above them. Alex's expression shifts to mild concern as he rises from his chair, candle in hand.

"Stay here," he says, moving toward the staircase. "I'll check upstairs."

Greg watches him disappear up the narrow stairs, candlelight dancing on the walls as he goes. The cottage feels larger and lonelier with Alex gone, the storm sounds more ominous without his steady presence. Greg can hear movement overhead—Alex's footsteps, a door opening and closing, the sound of something being moved.

"Greg?" Alex's voice carries down the stairs, carefully controlled but with an underlying note that makes Greg's stomach tighten. "Could you bring another candle up here?"

Greg grabs one of the remaining candles and climbs the stairs, following the sound of Alex's voice to his bedroom. He finds Alex standing in the middle of the small room, looking up at a growing water stain on the ceiling. A steady drip falls into a small puddle on the floor, dangerously close to Alex's neatly arranged belongings.

"Leak?" Greg asks, though the answer is obvious.

"Afraid so." Alex moves his suitcase away from the growing puddle, his movements precise despite the circumstances. "It's getting worse quickly."

Even as he speaks, the drip intensifies, becoming a small but steady stream. Greg looks around the room, taking in Alex's carefully organized space—clothes folded with military precision, toiletries arranged just so on the small dresser, everything in its proper place. Everything that's about to get soaked if they don't act quickly.

"We need to move your things," Greg says, already reaching for Alex's suitcase. "My room should be dry."

Alex nods, but Greg catches the flash of something across his face—discomfort, maybe, or anxiety about the disruption to his ordered space. They work quickly, gathering Alex's belongings and transferring them to Greg's room. The leak worsens as they work, the steady drip becoming a more insistent patter.

"That's everything," Alex says finally, surveying his displaced possessions now scattered across Greg's room. His usual composure looks strained, and Greg recognizes the signs—Alex struggling with circumstances beyond his control, his need for order disrupted by chaotic reality.

"It's fine," Greg says gently. "We'll sort it properly in the morning when there's better light."

Alex nods, but Greg can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands move restlessly as if looking for something to organize, to fix, to control.

"The bed," Alex says suddenly, and Greg's pulse jumps before he realizes Alex is looking at the room's single bed with practical concern, not anything else. "I should take the sofa downstairs. Give you your space back."

"Don't be ridiculous." The words come out more forcefully than Greg intended. "It's a big enough bed. We're both adults."

Alex looks at him with an expression Greg can't quite read. "Are you sure? I don't want to impose—"

"Alex." Greg steps closer, close enough to see the candlelight reflected in Alex's eyes. "You're not imposing. It's one night. We'll manage."

For a moment, Alex looks like he might argue further. Then another crash of thunder overhead seems to decide him, followed by an ominous creaking from the direction of his former room.

"All right," Alex says quietly. "Thank you."

They finish moving the last of Alex's things, working around each other in the small space with careful politeness. Greg tries not to think about the implications of sharing a bed with Alex, about how the cottage's isolation and the storm's drama seem to be stripping away all the careful boundaries that usually define their friendship.

Downstairs, they finish dinner and clean up by candlelight, their movements synchronized from years of working together. But underneath the familiar rhythm, Greg senses something different—an awareness, an anticipation that makes his skin feel sensitive and his pulse run quick.

"I should probably turn in soon," Alex says as they settle back in the sitting room, though it's still relatively early. "Long day."

Greg nods, understanding that Alex needs time to process the evening's disruptions, to mentally adjust to sleeping in an unfamiliar space. "I'll stay up a bit longer. Make sure the fire's safe before bed."

Alex looks grateful for the consideration. "I'll just... get ready, then."

Greg watches him climb the stairs, candle in hand, and tries not to think about Alex getting ready for bed just meters away. Tries not to imagine him changing clothes, brushing his teeth with characteristic thoroughness, arranging himself for sleep in that precise way Greg has glimpsed during their occasional shared hotel accommodations.

He tends the fire, banking it carefully for the night, then sits in his chair listening to the storm and the soft sounds of Alex moving about upstairs. When the cottage falls quiet except for wind and rain, Greg finally makes his own way to bed.

The bedroom feels different with Alex's presence—smaller, more intimate. Alex has arranged his toiletries on the dresser with typical neatness, his clothes folded precisely on the chair. He's already in bed, lying on what Greg assumes is the far side, his back turned and breathing carefully steady.

Greg changes quietly, hyperaware of every sound he makes, every movement that might disturb Alex's attempt at sleep. When he finally slips under the covers, the bed dips slightly, and he feels rather than sees Alex adjust his position in response.

They lie in careful silence, both obviously awake despite the pretense of sleep. The bed is indeed large enough for two, but Greg is acutely conscious of Alex's warmth just an arm's length away, the soft sound of his breathing, the way he occasionally shifts position with restless precision.

Outside, the storm continues its assault on the cottage, but inside their small bubble of warmth and candlelight, Greg feels something shifting between them—something that has nothing to do with weather or circumstances and everything to do with the careful way they're not touching, not speaking, not acknowledging the charged atmosphere that fills the space between their bodies.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but his mind keeps circling back to Alex's earlier words about clarity, about finding out what he really wants. In the darkness, with rain drumming against the windows and Alex's breathing soft beside him, Greg finds himself wondering if he's brave enough to discover what he wants—and what he might be willing to risk to get it.

Chapter Text

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but his mind keeps circling back to Alex's earlier words about clarity, about finding out what he really wants. In the darkness, with rain drumming against the windows and Alex breathing soft beside him, Greg finds himself wondering if he's brave enough to discover what he wants—and what he might be willing to risk to get it.

****

Something wakes Greg in the middle of the night. The room is pitch black, the candles long since burned down, and the storm still batters the cottage with unrelenting force. For a moment, he's disoriented, unsure what pulled him from sleep. Then he hears it again—a soft sound from Alex's side of the bed.

A quiet moan, barely audible above the rain.

Greg freezes, suddenly more awake. Is Alex having a nightmare? He strains to listen, holding his breath. Another sound, slightly louder this time—definitely a moan, but not one of distress. It's followed by the subtle shift of bedsheets, the mattress dipping slightly as Alex moves in his sleep.

Greg should turn away. Should pretend he hasn't heard anything. But his body has other ideas, responding to those sounds with an immediate, visceral reaction that makes his pulse quicken.

"Alex?" he whispers, his voice rough with sleep.

No response except another soft moan and the sound of quickened breathing. Alex is definitely asleep, caught in some dream that's making him restless, making him make those sounds that are doing terrible things to Greg's self-control.

Greg rolls onto his side, facing Alex's back. In the darkness, he can just make out the shape of him, the rise and fall of his shoulder with each breath. Another soft sound escapes Alex, and Greg feels something unravel inside him—some final thread of restraint snapping under the weight of too many unspoken desires.

Still half-asleep himself, operating on instinct rather than reason, Greg moves closer. The heat of Alex's body radiates through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Greg hesitates, hovering at the edge of a decision he can't take back.

Alex shifts again, pressing back against Greg's chest, a movement so unconscious and trusting that it steals Greg's breath. His arm slides around Alex's waist, pulling him closer, and Alex makes a sound of such pure satisfaction that Greg's remaining doubts dissolve like mist.

His hand drifts lower, finding the waistband of Alex's pajamas. He pauses there, giving Alex one last chance to wake, to protest, to pull away. Instead, Alex arches slightly, his body seeking contact in sleep that he might never allow himself awake.

Greg slips his hand beneath the fabric, finding Alex already hard and wanting. The first touch draws a gasp from Alex that sends fire racing through Greg's veins. He moves his hand slowly, exploring the feel of Alex with gentle strokes, learning what makes his breathing hitch, what draws those soft moans from his throat.

It feels dreamlike, unreal—the darkness, the storm outside, the warmth of Alex pressed against him. Greg buries his face in the nape of Alex's neck, breathing in the scent of him, feeling the soft texture of his hair against his cheek.

Alex's breathing quickens as Greg finds a rhythm, his hips moving in unconscious counterpoint. Greg wonders if he's still asleep, if this is all happening in some shared dream state that will evaporate with morning light. But the solid weight of Alex in his hand feels undeniably real, as does the mounting tension in his body as he approaches release.

When it happens, Alex's whole body goes taut against him, a strangled sound caught in his throat as he spills over Greg's hand. Greg holds him through it, murmuring words he won't remember later, gentle nonsense meant to soothe and comfort.

As Alex's breathing slows, returning to the deep rhythm of sleep, Greg carefully withdraws his hand. The reality of what he's just done begins to penetrate the fog of desire and sleep that clouded his judgment. He's crossed a line that can't be uncrossed, acted on feelings he's barely acknowledged to himself, much less to Alex.

He should wake Alex now. Should confess, explain, apologize. But Alex has already settled back into deeper sleep, his body relaxed against Greg's in a way that feels both wonderful and terrifying. And Greg is a coward, unwilling to shatter this moment with harsh reality, with the possibility of rejection or worse—the careful, composed way Alex might try to let him down gently.

So instead, Greg presses a kiss to the back of Alex's neck, so light it might not have happened at all, and carefully puts distance between their bodies. He lies awake for what feels like hours, listening to the storm and Alex's steady breathing, wondering what morning will bring and how he'll face the consequences of what the darkness allowed him to do.

When Greg finally drifts back to sleep, his dreams are troubled by images of Alex walking away, of opportunities missed and feelings left unspoken. He wakes briefly several times, each time checking that Alex is still there beside him, still breathing deeply, still unaware of the line they've crossed.

Morning arrives with pale sunlight breaking through the clouds and the distant sound of birds reclaiming the world after the storm. Greg opens his eyes to find Alex already gone from the bed, his side neatly made as if trying to erase any evidence of their shared night.

From downstairs comes the familiar sound of Alex moving about the kitchen—the quiet efficiency of coffee being made, breakfast being prepared. Greg lies still, gathering courage for the conversation that must follow, trying to find words for feelings he's kept buried for longer than he cares to admit.

The power has returned during the night; the bedside lamp flickers on when Greg tests it. The mundane normalcy of electricity feels jarring after the intimate darkness of the night before. Greg dresses slowly, rehearsing explanations and apologies in his head, none of which seem adequate for the boundary he crossed.

When he finally makes his way downstairs, Alex is at the stove, his back turned as he tends to something that smells like pancakes. The kitchen is filled with morning light, everything clean and orderly, as if the chaos of the storm never happened.

"Morning," Greg says, his voice rougher than he intended.

Alex turns, spatula in hand, and for a heart-stopping moment, Greg searches his face for any sign that he remembers, that he knows. But Alex's expression is as composed as ever, perhaps a touch more reserved than usual.

"Sleep well?" Alex asks, turning back to the stove.

The question hangs in the air between them, loaded with implications Alex can't possibly intend. Greg hesitates, caught between truth and self-preservation.

"Not really," he admits finally. "The storm kept waking me."

Alex nods, flipping a pancake with practiced precision. "It was quite something. The roof leak seems to have stopped, at least."

Greg watches him work, looking for any hint that Alex is avoiding a more difficult conversation. But there's nothing in his movements to suggest awareness of what happened in the darkness—just the familiar, methodical efficiency that defines everything Alex does.

"Listen, Alex—" Greg begins, not sure what will follow but knowing he needs to say something.

"Breakfast's ready," Alex interrupts, sliding perfectly golden pancakes onto plates. "Coffee's fresh too."

He moves to the table, setting down their plates with careful precision. When he finally meets Greg's eyes, there's something guarded in his expression that wasn't there yesterday.

"Thank you," Greg says, the words inadequate for everything he wants to express. "For breakfast. And for... everything."

Alex's gaze flickers away. "It's just pancakes, Greg."

But they both know it's not just pancakes. It's everything unsaid between them, everything that happened in the darkness and can't be acknowledged in the light. Greg takes a seat at the table, watching Alex pour coffee with steady hands that betray nothing of what he might be feeling.

The morning stretches ahead of them, filled with practical tasks—checking the cottage for storm damage, packing for their return to London, pretending that nothing has changed when everything has. Greg cuts into his pancakes, perfect as always when Alex makes them, and wonders how long they can maintain this careful fiction of normalcy.

Outside, the world is washed clean by the storm, everything sharp and clear in the morning light. But between them, nothing is clear at all—just the lingering echo of sounds in the darkness and the knowledge that some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed.

Greg's phone buzzes on the table, startling them both. He glances at the screen, then does a double-take.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, scrolling through what appears to be a weather alert.

"What is it?" Alex asks, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.

"Looks like we're not going anywhere today." Greg turns the phone so Alex can see. "Or tomorrow, for that matter. The coastal road's flooded in both directions. They're saying at least three days before it's passable again."

Alex's expression shifts subtly—a tightening around the eyes, a slight compression of his lips that Greg recognizes as his processing-unexpected-information face. "Three days?"

"Minimum," Greg confirms, watching Alex closely. "Apparently last night's storm was just the warm-up act. There's another system moving in this afternoon."

Alex sets down his fork with deliberate precision, then reaches for his own phone. Greg can practically see the mental calculations happening—schedules being reviewed, commitments assessed, contingency plans formulated. It's fascinating to watch, even as Greg's own thoughts race with the implications of three more days in this cottage. Three more nights.

After a moment, Alex looks up from his phone. "I have a meeting on Thursday I can't miss. It's the American network executives." His tone is carefully neutral, but Greg catches the undercurrent of tension.

"Can you do it remotely?" Greg asks, trying to keep his own voice equally level despite the complicated emotions churning inside him. Relief at the extended stay warring with anxiety about what happened last night. Guilt about his actions mingling with a treacherous hope for more time alone with Alex.

Alex considers this, his thumb tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the edge of his phone. "Possibly. The connection here isn't great, but if the power stays on..." He trails off, then nods once, decision made. "I'll email them about the situation."

"Right." Greg takes a sip of coffee, using the mug to hide whatever might be showing on his face. "And I can reschedule my Thursday. Nothing that can't wait."

Alex returns to his breakfast, cutting his pancakes into precise, equal pieces. Greg recognizes the behavior—Alex imposing order on the small things when larger matters are beyond his control. It's oddly endearing, this need for precision in the face of chaos.

"We should check our provisions," Alex says after a moment. "See what we'll need if we're here longer than planned."

Greg nods, grateful for the practical focus. "And we should probably see what happened to your room. Make sure there's no serious damage."

They finish breakfast in relative silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Greg keeps catching himself watching Alex—the careful way he eats, the slight furrow between his eyebrows as he mentally reorganizes his week, the way sunlight catches in his hair. Each observation feels dangerous, loaded with implications Greg isn't ready to face.

When they head upstairs to inspect the leak, Greg is relieved to find the damage less extensive than feared. The ceiling still shows a damp patch, but the active dripping has stopped. Alex's mattress bore the brunt of the water, its surface dark with moisture.

"Well, that's not salvageable," Greg observes, poking at the soggy bedding.

Alex makes a noncommittal sound, surveying the room with practical assessment rather than dismay. "We'll need to let it dry out completely before we leave. Open the windows when the rain stops."

There's an obvious question hanging in the air between them, one neither seems ready to address directly. Where will Alex sleep for the next three nights? The cottage has only the two bedrooms, and now only one usable bed.

"You can take my room," Greg offers, the words rushing out before he can overthink them. "I'll sleep on the sofa downstairs."

Alex looks at him then, really looks at him, and Greg has the uncomfortable sensation of being completely transparent. "That's unnecessary," Alex says quietly. "The bed is large enough for both of us. As you said last night, we're adults."

Last night. The words hang in the air between them, and Greg feels his heart rate accelerate. Does Alex remember? Is this a subtle acknowledgment? But Alex's expression reveals nothing, his composure intact as he turns to examine the water stain on the ceiling.

"If you're sure," Greg manages, and hates how uncertain his voice sounds.

"It makes the most sense," Alex replies, practical as always. "The sofa is too small for either of us to sleep comfortably for multiple nights."

Greg nods, not trusting himself to speak further on the subject. The thought of three more nights sharing a bed with Alex sends a complicated mix of anticipation and dread coursing through him. After what happened in the darkness, can he trust himself? Can he lie beside Alex night after night and not reach for him again?

"We should make a list," Alex says, already moving toward the door. "Food, supplies, anything else we might need. There's a small shop in the village that might still be accessible on foot, if the coastal path isn't flooded."

"Right," Greg agrees, grateful for the shift to practical matters. "A list. Good thinking."

Downstairs, Alex retrieves a notepad and pen from his bag—of course he has these things readily available—and begins writing with methodical precision. Greg watches him, struck by the familiar sight of Alex organizing, planning, creating order from chaos. It's what he does, what he's always done, and Greg feels a sudden rush of affection so strong it's almost painful.

"What?" Alex asks, glancing up to find Greg watching him.

"Nothing," Greg says quickly. "Just thinking about what food we might need."

Alex gives him a look that suggests he doesn't entirely believe this, but returns to his list without comment. "We should check the generator as well," he adds, making another note. "In case the power goes out again."

Greg nods, though he's not sure he could find the generator, let alone check it. That's Alex's domain—practical knowledge, preparation, foresight. Greg's contribution to their partnership has always been different—creativity, spontaneity, the ability to work without a safety net.

The thought of their partnership brings him back to Alex's earlier comments about America, about international projects. About moving on. With the trip now extended, will Alex want to continue their conversation from that first night by the fire? And if he does, what will Greg say?

The truth is, Greg doesn't know what he wants for his own future, let alone what he might want for his and Alex's shared professional path. The only thing he knows with growing certainty is that he can't imagine a future without Alex in it, in some capacity. The thought of Alex moving to another continent, building a separate career, a separate life, creates a hollow feeling in his chest that he's not ready to examine too closely.

"Greg?" Alex's voice pulls him from his thoughts. "Any specific requests for the shop? If we can reach it."

Greg blinks, focusing on the immediate question rather than the larger uncertainties looming in his mind. "Um, maybe some biscuits? Proper ones, not those healthy things you bought last time."

The corner of Alex's mouth twitches upward. "Noted. Nutritionally bankrupt biscuits."

"The best kind," Greg confirms, and the small moment of normalcy between them feels like a lifeline in increasingly complicated waters.

They complete the list together, Alex's neat handwriting filling the page with necessities and a few concessions to comfort. When it's done, they check the weather forecast again—still dismal, with heavy rain predicted throughout the day and into tomorrow.

"We should probably go now, before the next system hits," Alex says, glancing at the temporarily clear sky outside. "The path might be muddy but at least we won't get soaked."

Greg nods, though the thought of slogging through mud to the village isn't particularly appealing. Still, the alternative—being trapped in the cottage without adequate supplies for three days—is worse. And if he's honest with himself, he could use some physical activity to clear his head, some space away from the cottage's intimate confines.

They prepare for the walk with their usual division of labor—Alex checking the route and packing waterproof gear, Greg providing commentary and carrying capacity. The familiar rhythm of their interaction steadies Greg, grounds him in the established patterns of their friendship rather than the uncertain terrain they've entered since arriving at the cottage.

Outside, the world is transformed by the storm. The coastal path is strewn with debris—branches torn from trees, seaweed flung far above the tide line, small stones displaced by the force of wind and water. The air smells clean and wild, salt and earth mingling in the aftermath of natural violence.

They pick their way carefully along the muddy track, Alex leading the way with characteristic precision. Greg follows, watching the set of Alex's shoulders, the deliberate placement of his feet, the way he pauses occasionally to check their route. Even in these circumstances, Alex moves with purpose and grace, never wasted motion, never unnecessary steps.

"Careful here," Alex warns as they navigate a particularly steep section where mud has slid across the path. He extends a hand back toward Greg, an automatic gesture of support.

Greg takes it without thinking, Alex's fingers warm and solid against his. The contact is brief, practical, entirely innocent—yet Greg feels it like an electric current running up his arm, awakening nerves he's been trying to ignore since waking this morning.

Alex releases him once they're past the obstacle, continuing along the path without comment. But Greg notices a slight quickening in his step, a new tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. Maybe he felt it too, that spark of awareness at their brief contact. Or maybe Greg is projecting, seeing what he wants to see in Alex's carefully controlled movements.

The village, when they reach it, shows signs of the storm's passing—branches down in the narrow streets, shopkeepers sweeping water from doorways, locals exchanging stories of the night's drama. The small shop is open, though with limited stock due to disrupted deliveries.

They split up to gather supplies more efficiently, Greg handling the food while Alex sources practical necessities—batteries, candles, a better first aid kit than the cottage provides. Greg finds himself oddly aware of Alex's location in the small shop, his senses attuned to the sound of his voice as he speaks to the shopkeeper, the glimpses of his profile as he moves between shelves.

When they meet at the register, Alex reviews their selections with his usual thoroughness, adding a few last-minute items Greg hadn't thought of. The shopkeeper, a weathered woman with knowing eyes, watches them with interest.

"You staying at the Jenkins' cottage, then?" she asks as she rings up their purchases.

Greg nods, surprised she knows their location. "That's right. Just up the coast."

"Thought so. Not many holiday lets open this time of year." She glances between them with a speculative expression that makes Greg suddenly self-conscious. "You're lucky—that place is solid as they come. Built to withstand worse than last night's blow."

"We noticed," Alex says, his tone polite but not inviting further conversation.

The woman seems undeterred. "You'll be stuck there a few days, I reckon. Road won't clear till Friday at the earliest, according to my son-in-law. He works for the council."

"So we heard," Greg replies, feeling oddly defensive under her curious gaze. "We've stocked up, as you can see."

She nods, continuing to study them with that same knowing look. "Well, you two enjoy your extended holiday, then. Sometimes these things happen for a reason, don't they?"

Greg feels heat creep up his neck at her implication, but Alex is packing the supplies with methodical care, seemingly oblivious to the shopkeeper's knowing look. Greg feels his face growing warmer as he fumbles with his wallet.

"Thanks for your help," he manages, taking the heavy bags while avoiding the woman's eyes.

Outside, the sky has darkened again, clouds gathering on the horizon with ominous intent. Greg shifts the weight of the groceries, stealing a glance at Alex who's studying the sky with a small furrow between his brows.

"We should hurry," Alex says, already turning toward the coastal path. "That system's moving in faster than forecast."

They walk in silence for the first few minutes, the only sounds their footsteps on the muddy path and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. Greg struggles to find something to say that doesn't involve last night, or sharing a bed again tonight, or the strange tension that seems to hover between them like the gathering storm.

"That shopkeeper was... friendly," he offers finally.

Alex glances at him, his expression unreadable. "She was certainly curious."

"Do you think she thought we were—" Greg stops himself, suddenly unsure where the sentence was heading.

"Together?" Alex finishes for him, his tone carefully neutral. "Probably. Two men sharing a remote cottage. It's the obvious assumption."

Greg's heart beats a little faster. "Right. Yes. Obvious."

The path narrows, forcing them to walk single file. Greg follows Alex, watching the precise way he navigates the slippery terrain, the careful placement of each foot. Even in these conditions, there's something graceful about Alex's movements, a quiet competence that Greg has always admired.

The rain starts when they're still a mile from the cottage, fat drops that quickly become a steady downpour. Alex quickens his pace, and Greg struggles to keep up without slipping on the increasingly treacherous path. By the time the cottage comes into view, they're both soaked through despite their waterproof jackets.

"Again with the accurate forecasting," Greg grumbles as they reach the door. Alex fumbles with the key, his usually deft fingers clumsy with cold. Greg stands close behind him, using his larger frame to shield Alex from the worst of the rain, close enough to smell the damp wool of his jacket and something underneath that's just... Alex.

Inside, they drip onto the stone floor, a repeat of yesterday's return. But this time, Greg is acutely aware of how close they're standing in the small entryway, of how Alex's breath comes quick from their hurried walk, of how his wet clothes cling to the lean lines of his body.

"We should change," Alex says, his voice oddly quiet. "Before we catch cold."

Greg nods, not trusting his voice. He follows Alex up the narrow stairs, both of them leaving wet footprints on the old wood. At the top, they separate to opposite sides of the hallway—Alex to Greg's room where his things are now stored, Greg to the bathroom. The arrangement feels strangely intimate, a domestic choreography they've fallen into without discussion.

In the small bathroom, Greg peels off his wet clothes, trying not to think about Alex doing the same just meters away. He dries himself roughly with a towel, his mind unhelpfully supplying images of Alex—water dripping from his hair, skin cool from the rain, those precise fingers unbuttoning his sodden shirt...

"Get a grip," Greg mutters to his reflection. The man in the mirror looks back at him with confused eyes, hair sticking up wildly where he's toweled it dry.

When he emerges, wearing dry jeans and his warmest jumper, the hallway is empty. He can hear Alex moving around downstairs, probably already organizing their supplies with typical efficiency. Greg takes a moment before joining him, trying to compose himself, to find some equilibrium in a situation that feels increasingly unbalanced.

Downstairs, Alex has indeed unpacked the groceries, arranging them in the small kitchen with methodical care. He's changed into dry clothes—dark jeans and that soft gray jumper from yesterday that makes his eyes look bluer somehow. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the edges where it's beginning to dry.

"Tea?" Alex asks without turning, somehow sensing Greg's presence.

"Please." Greg settles at the small kitchen table, watching Alex move around the space with practiced ease. There's something soothing about his precise movements, the way he measures tea leaves exactly, the careful timing as he waits for the water to reach the right temperature before pouring.

Alex sets a steaming mug before Greg, then takes the seat opposite, cradling his own tea between long fingers. For a moment, they sit in companionable silence, listening to the rain lashing against the windows.

"I managed to email the American executives," Alex says finally. "I’ve decided not to go down that route at this time. There's too much on my plate already."

Greg nods, oddly relieved. "Good. That's... good."

"And your Thursday plans?"

"Easily rescheduled. Nothing urgent." Greg takes a sip of his tea—perfect, as always when Alex makes it. "So we're officially stranded for the duration."

"It seems so." Alex's gaze meets his briefly, then slides away to focus on the rain-streaked window. "At least we're well-supplied now."

Greg makes a noncommittal sound, his mind circling back to the real issue—three more nights in the cottage, sharing a bed, pretending that nothing happened in the darkness. The thought makes his heart rate pick up, a mixture of dread and anticipation that's becoming uncomfortably familiar.

"About last night," he begins, the words escaping before he can reconsider.

Alex goes very still, his hands tightening almost imperceptibly around his mug. "What about it?"

Greg hesitates, caught between confession and cowardice. The way Alex is looking at him—guarded, careful—makes his courage falter. "The... sleeping arrangements. Are you sure you're comfortable with sharing? I really don't mind the sofa."

Something flickers across Alex's face—relief? Disappointment? It's gone too quickly for Greg to read. "As I said, it's fine. The bed is large enough. And the sofa really is too small for either of us."

"Right. Yes. Of course." Greg takes another sip of tea, hiding behind the mug. "Just wanted to check."

Alex studies him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Is there something else, Greg?"

The question hangs between them, loaded with possibilities. Greg could tell the truth now—confess what happened in the darkness, what he did while Alex slept. He could ask if Alex remembers, if he knows, if he minds. He could put words to the feelings that have been building inside him for longer than he cares to admit.

But the thought of Alex's reaction—the careful way he might try to let Greg down gently, the potential damage to their friendship, the awkwardness of being trapped together for days afterward—makes the words die in his throat.

"No," Greg says finally. "Nothing else."

Alex holds his gaze a moment longer, as if searching for something. Then he nods once, accepting the lie. "I thought we might make pasta for dinner. Something simple."

"Sounds good." Greg latches onto the change of subject gratefully. "Need any help?"

"Not yet. Later, perhaps." Alex rises from the table, carrying his mug to the sink. "I thought I might do some work first, while the power and internet are still functioning."

The mention of work, of their lives outside of this cottage, sends a small pang through Greg's chest. "Right. Yes. Don't let me distract you."

Alex gives him a small smile, the kind that barely reaches his eyes. "You're never a distraction, Greg."

The words sound like they should be reassuring, but something in Alex's tone makes them feel like the opposite. Before Greg can respond, Alex has gathered his laptop and headed for the small desk in the corner of the sitting room, effectively ending the conversation.

Greg remains at the kitchen table, watching rain stream down the windows and listening to the soft sounds of Alex typing. The cottage feels both too small and too large—too small to escape the constant awareness of Alex's presence, too large with the growing distance between them.

The afternoon stretches ahead, long hours to fill while trapped inside by the storm. Greg should use the time productively—answer emails, review scripts, do any of the dozen work tasks that usually fill his days in London. Instead, he finds himself watching Alex from the corner of his eye, studying the serious set of his mouth as he concentrates, the precise movements of his fingers across the keyboard, the occasional furrow of his brow when something doesn't meet his exacting standards.

After a while, the observation becomes too much—too intimate, too revealing of his own feelings. Greg forces himself to look away, to find some occupation that doesn't involve staring at his friend like a lovesick teenager. He discovers a bookshelf in the sitting room, filled with paperbacks left by previous guests. Most are the kind of light fiction people read on holiday, but he finds a thriller that looks promising enough to hold his attention.

The hours pass in quiet companionship, each absorbed in their separate activities yet acutely aware of the other's presence. Rain continues to batter the cottage, wind howling around the eaves and rattling the old windows. Occasionally, they exchange brief comments—observations about the weather, offers of more tea, mundane remarks that don't touch on the undercurrents flowing beneath their careful politeness.

As evening approaches, the light begins to fade, and Greg's stomach reminds him that lunch was a hasty affair of sandwiches eaten on the walk back from the village. He glances up from his book to find Alex still working, his face illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen.

"Hungry?" Greg asks, breaking the long silence.

Alex looks up, blinking as if returning from somewhere far away. "Is it that time already?"

"Past it, I think." Greg checks his watch—nearly seven. "You've been working for hours."

"I lost track of time." Alex closes his laptop with a small sigh. "The new network push is... complicated."

Greg marks his place in the book and sets it aside. "Anything you want to talk about?"

For a moment, Alex looks like he might actually open up, might share whatever's been occupying him all afternoon. Then his expression shifts back to its usual careful composure. "Nothing important. Just logistics."

The deflection stings more than it should. Greg nods, accepting the boundary Alex has drawn. "Right. Well, you mentioned pasta earlier?"

"Yes." Alex stands, stretching slightly after hours at the desk. "Something simple. I should have everything we need."

In the kitchen, they fall into an easy rhythm, moving around each other in the small space with the coordination of long familiarity. Greg chops vegetables while Alex prepares the sauce, their conversation limited to practical matters—"Pass the salt, would you?" and "Is this enough garlic?"

It's comfortable, this domestic dance, yet underneath runs that same current of awareness, of things unsaid. Greg finds himself hyperconscious of every time their hands brush passing ingredients, every moment their shoulders touch as they work side by side.

"This smells amazing," Greg says as Alex stirs the sauce with careful attention. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"My mother, initially." Alex adds a pinch of herbs to the pot. "Then necessity, living alone. I find it... calming. Methodical."

Greg nods, understanding. Cooking is exactly the kind of activity that would appeal to Alex's ordered mind—precise measurements, clear instructions, predictable results. "I like cooking too," Greg says, watching Alex's precise movements with the wooden spoon. "Though not with your... finesse."

The rain intensifies, drumming against the windows with renewed vigor. A particularly loud crack of thunder makes them both look up.

"That was close," Alex observes, his expression thoughtful as he turns back to the sauce. "I think we should probably open some wine. If we're going to be stuck inside all night."

Greg raises an eyebrow, surprised by the suggestion. Alex isn't usually one to propose drinking on a weeknight. "Sounds like an excellent plan. I noticed a few bottles in that cupboard yesterday."

He retrieves a bottle of red, something Italian and probably decent based on the label. Alex finds glasses while Greg wrestles with the corkscrew, their movements synchronizing in the small kitchen with practiced ease.

The pasta is perfect, of course—the sauce is rich and complex despite the simple ingredients. They eat at the small table, the storm providing dramatic background music to their meal. The wine loosens something between them, the conversation flowing more easily than it has since that first night's discussion by the fire.

"Another glass?" Greg offers when they've finished eating, holding up the bottle.

Alex hesitates only briefly before nodding. "Why not? We're not going anywhere."

They move to the sitting room, settling into their usual chairs before the fire. Greg refills their glasses, noticing they've nearly finished the bottle already.

"We could open another," he suggests, feeling pleasantly warm from the wine and food. "Make a proper night of it."

A smile tugs at the corner of Alex's mouth. "What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. A game, maybe?" The words come out before Greg fully considers them.

"A game," Alex repeats, his tone thoughtful rather than dismissive. "What sort of game?"

Greg shrugs, trying to appear casual despite the sudden quickening of his pulse. "Something to pass the time. Truth or dare? Never-have-I-ever? I'm not fussy."

Alex studies him for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Never-have-I-ever could work. Simple rules."

"Really?" Greg can't hide his surprise. Alex isn't usually one for drinking games.

"Unless you'd prefer something else?" There's a challenge in Alex's voice that makes Greg's skin prickle with awareness.

"No, that's... that's good." Greg stands, perhaps too quickly. "I'll get another bottle."

In the kitchen, Greg takes a moment to collect himself, pressing his palms against the cool counter. What is he doing? Proposing drinking games like they're university students, not middle-aged men with a complicated friendship and an increasingly tense atmosphere between them.

But when he returns with a fresh bottle, Alex has cleared space on the coffee table and set their glasses side by side. He looks up at Greg with an expression that's both cautious and expectant.

"So," Alex says as Greg refills their glasses. "How do we play?"

"You've never played before?" Greg settles back into his chair, cradling his wine.

"I'm familiar with the concept," Alex replies, a slight defensiveness in his tone. "I just haven't played much. Or... at all, really."

The admission makes Greg smile. Of course Alex hasn't played drinking games. It's so perfectly on brand that it's almost endearing.

"It's simple," Greg explains. "You say 'never have I ever' followed by something you haven't done. If I've done it, I drink. If I haven't, I don't. Then it's your turn.

Alex nods, processing the rules with his usual thoroughness. "And the objective is...?"

"To get drunk and learn embarrassing things about each other," Greg says honestly. "There's no winning, exactly."

"I see." Alex takes a thoughtful sip of wine. "You start."

Greg considers for a moment, trying to think of something safe to begin with. "Never have I ever... been to Japan."

Alex doesn't drink. "That's very tame."

"We're warming up," Greg defends. "Your turn."

"Never have I ever..." Alex pauses, considering. "Been arrested."

Greg takes a drink, and Alex's eyebrows rise slightly.

"It was a protest in university," Greg explains. "Nothing serious. Charges dropped."

Alex looks genuinely interested. "I didn't know that about you."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," Greg says, and immediately wishes he hadn't. The words hang between them, loaded with implication.

"Your turn," Alex says after a moment, his gaze steady on Greg's face.

The game continues, their questions gradually becoming more personal as the wine takes effect. Greg learns that Alex has never skinny-dipped, never tried recreational drugs, never been in a physical fight. Alex discovers that Greg has done all three.

As they start the third bottle, the questions take an inevitable turn toward the intimate.

"Never have I ever," Greg says, feeling reckless from the wine, "kissed someone of the same gender."

Alex's fingers tighten on his glass. He lifts it to his lips and takes a sip, his eyes never leaving Greg's face.

Greg feels his heart stutter in his chest. He hadn't expected that. He takes his own drink, watching Alex over the rim of his glass.

"Interesting," Alex says, his voice carefully neutral despite the flush spreading across his cheekbones. "I wouldn't have guessed that about you."

"Likewise," Greg replies, trying to keep his tone casual while his mind races with this new information. "University experiment?"

Alex's mouth quirks in a small smile. "Something like that. Your turn."

"Actually, it's your turn," Greg corrects him, suddenly eager to hear what Alex will ask next.

Alex considers for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass. "Never have I ever..." he pauses, and Greg can almost see him weighing options, deciding how far to push this new boundary between them. "Never have I ever been in love with someone I shouldn't."

The question lands like a stone in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward. Greg stares at his glass, feeling trapped between honesty and self-preservation. After a long moment, he raises the glass and drinks.

Alex watches him, something flickering in his eyes that Greg can't quite read. Then, slowly, deliberately, Alex also takes a drink.

The silence that follows feels charged, dangerous. Greg's heart hammers against his ribs as he tries to process what just happened, what it might mean.

"Define 'shouldn't,'" Greg finally says, his voice rougher than he intended.

Alex looks into his wine glass as if the answer might be found in its depths. "Someone unavailable. Someone inappropriate. Someone who would complicate things."

Greg nods, understanding all too well. "Your turn," he says again, though it's actually his.

Neither of them corrects the mistake.

"Never have I ever," Alex continues, his voice quieter now, "wanted to kiss someone sitting in this room."

The question hangs between them, bold and terrifying in its directness. Greg feels light-headed, uncertain if it's the wine or the sudden shift in the atmosphere. He raises his glass without hesitation and drinks, his eyes locked on Alex's face.

Alex's hand trembles slightly as he lifts his own glass and takes a long sip.

"Alex," Greg says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The sound of his name seems to break something in Alex. He sets his glass down with careful precision and stands. "I think I've had enough wine for tonight."

Greg feels as though he's been doused in cold water. "Alex, wait—"

"It's late," Alex says, not meeting Greg's eyes. "And we've been drinking. This isn't... we shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Greg stands too, moving closer to Alex, close enough to see the rapid pulse at his throat.

"You know what," Alex says, his voice strained. "This was a mistake."

"Was it?" Greg takes another step closer. "Or was it the most honest we've been with each other in years?"

Alex looks up at him then, his expression a complex mixture of fear and longing that makes Greg's chest ache. "Greg, please. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"What if I want it to be hard?" Greg says, the double entendre slipping out before he can stop it.

A startled laugh escapes Alex, breaking the tension momentarily. "That's terrible, even for you."

Greg grins, encouraged by the brief return of normalcy. "Made you laugh, though."

"You always do," Alex admits softly, and there's something in his tone that makes Greg's heart skip.

They stand close enough now that Greg can smell the wine on Alex's breath, can see the subtle flecks of color in his eyes. All it would take is one small movement to close the distance between them, to answer the question their drinking game has raised.

Instead, Alex steps back, putting space between them. "I should clean up," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen.

"I'll help," Greg offers, trying to hide his disappointment and hurt.

They clear the dishes in silence, the ease of their earlier interaction replaced by a tense awareness of each other's movements. Greg watches Alex's precise, efficient motions as he rinses plates and loads the dishwasher, wishing he knew what was happening behind those careful eyes.

When the kitchen is spotless—Alex would accept nothing less—they stand awkwardly in the small space, the evening suddenly at an uncomfortable crossroads.

"I think I'll turn in," Alex says finally. "It's been a long day."

Greg nods, trying not to think about what that means—about sharing the bed again, about lying next to Alex in the darkness, about what happened last night and whether it might happen again.

"I'll be up in a bit," he says, not quite ready to face that particular challenge. "Just going to check the fire's banked properly."

Alex hesitates, as if wanting to say something more. Then he simply nods and heads for the stairs, his footsteps receding into the upper floor of the cottage.

Greg remains in the kitchen, listening to the sounds of Alex moving around upstairs—water running in the bathroom, floorboards creaking as he prepares for bed. The domesticity of it all feels both natural and surreal, as if they've slipped into some alternate reality where this is their life together.

He pours himself a glass of water, hoping to mitigate tomorrow's hangover, and drinks it slowly while staring out the kitchen window at the storm-lashed darkness. The wine has left him in a strange state—not drunk enough to excuse poor decisions, but just buzzed enough to make them seem like good ideas.

When he can no longer delay, Greg makes his way upstairs. The bathroom light spills into the hallway, and he finds Alex at the sink, dressed in pajamas and methodically brushing his teeth. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and something electric passes between them before Alex looks away.

Greg slips past him to retrieve his own toothbrush, acutely aware of how close they stand in the small space. They complete their bedtime routines in silence, moving around each other with careful precision to avoid contact.

In the bedroom, Alex has already claimed the same side of the bed as last night, the covers turned down neatly on Greg's side. Greg changes quickly, keeping his back turned as he strips to his boxers and t-shirt. When he turns around, Alex is already in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Greg slides under the covers, keeping to his side of the mattress. The space between them feels both too large and too small. Outside, the storm continues its assault on the cottage, rain lashing against the windows and wind howling around the eaves.

"Goodnight, Greg," Alex says, his voice quiet in the darkness.

"Goodnight," Greg replies, staring up at the shadowy ceiling.

He listens to Alex's breathing, waiting for it to slow and deepen with sleep. But minutes pass, and it remains as irregular as his own. Neither of them is falling asleep, too aware of the other's presence, too conscious of what happened during their drinking game, of the truths they almost acknowledged.

"Alex?" Greg says finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"Yes?" The immediate response confirms that Alex is as awake as he is.

"About earlier..." Greg begins, not sure what he wants to say but knowing he needs to say something.

"It was just a game, Greg," Alex interrupts, his voice carefully controlled. "People say all sorts of things when they're drinking."

The dismissal stings. "Right. Of course. Just a game."

Another silence falls, heavier than before. Greg turns onto his side, facing away from Alex, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest. He's almost managed to convince himself that sleep might be possible when Alex speaks again.

"I wasn't lying, though," Alex says, so quietly Greg almost misses it over the sound of the rain.

Greg rolls back over, heart suddenly racing. "What?"

"In the game," Alex clarifies, still staring at the ceiling. "I wasn't lying."

Greg's mouth goes dry. "Neither was I."

The confession hangs between them in the darkness. Greg can hear Alex's breathing quicken slightly, can feel the subtle shift of the mattress as Alex turns toward him.

"Greg," Alex says, his voice different now—lower, less controlled. "What are we doing?"

It's a question with too many possible answers, none of them simple. Greg searches for the right words, the perfect response that will bridge the gap between them without risking everything.

"I don't know," he admits finally. "But I know what I want to do."

"What's that?" Alex asks, and there's a vulnerability in his voice that Greg has rarely heard before.

Greg shifts closer, closing some of the distance between them. "I want to kiss you," he says simply. "I've wanted to for a long time."

Alex's breath catches audibly. "That might complicate things."

"Things are already complicated," Greg points out. "Have been for years."

"Yes," Alex agrees softly. "They have been."

Greg moves closer still, until he can just make out Alex's features in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "We could just blame it on the wine," he offers. "On being stranded together. On the storm."

"We could," Alex agrees, but his tone suggests he knows as well as Greg does that those would be excuses, not reasons.

"Or," Greg continues, his heart pounding so hard he's sure Alex must hear it, "we could stop pretending this hasn't been building for years."

Alex is silent for so long that Greg begins to worry he's miscalculated terribly. Then, so quietly it's almost inaudible: "I'm not very good at this, Greg."

"At what?"

"At... wanting things. At letting myself have them." Alex's voice is strained, as if the admission is being pulled from him against his will.

Greg's chest tightens with a surge of protective tenderness. "What do you want, Alex?"

Another long pause, filled only with the sound of rain against the windows and their uneven breathing. Then Alex moves, closing the final distance between them until their faces are inches apart.

"You," Alex says simply. "I want you."

The word sends a jolt of electricity through Greg's body. He reaches out, finding Alex's face in the darkness, cradling his jaw with a gentleness that surprises even himself.

"You have me," Greg whispers. "You've always had me."

And then they're kissing, Alex's lips soft and uncertain against his own. It's tentative at first, exploratory, both of them adjusting to this new reality where they're allowed to touch, to taste, to want. Then Alex makes a small sound in the back of his throat—part surrender, part demand—and the kiss deepens, years of unspoken desire finally finding expression.

Greg's hand slides into Alex's hair, holding him close as the kiss grows more urgent. Alex's body presses against his, lean and warm through the thin fabric of their night clothes. It's better than Greg imagined, and he's imagined this moment more times than he cares to admit.

When they finally break apart, both breathing hard, Greg rests his forehead against Alex's. "Okay?" he asks, needing to be sure.

"Yes," Alex says, his voice rough. "More than okay."

Greg kisses him again, unable to stop now that he's started, savoring the warmth of Alex's mouth and the subtle taste of wine still lingering on his lips. His hand slides down Alex's side, feeling the lean muscle beneath the thin t-shirt, marveling at finally being allowed this touch.

Alex responds with unexpected hunger, pressing closer, one hand curling around the nape of Greg's neck. The kiss deepens, becomes more urgent, years of restraint crumbling in the darkness of the storm-lashed cottage.

When they break apart again, both breathing hard, Alex's hand remains on Greg's chest, a warm weight over his thundering heart.

"I should tell you something," Alex says, his voice barely audible above the rain.

"What is it?" Greg asks, suddenly apprehensive at Alex's serious tone.

Alex is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven. Then: "Last night. When you– I wasn't... I wasn't actually asleep."

The words hit Greg like a physical blow. He goes completely still, his mind racing to process what Alex is saying.

"You weren't—" Greg starts, then stops, his mouth suddenly dry. "You mean when I—"

"Yes," Alex confirms, his voice steady despite the tension Greg can feel in his body. "I was awake the whole time."

Greg's heart pounds painfully against his ribs. "Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you stop me?"

"Because I didn't want you to stop," Alex admits, the words rushing out now as if he's been holding them back too long. "I've wanted... that... for longer than I can admit even to myself."

Greg struggles to find words, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of shock, embarrassment, and a strange, fierce joy. "But you pretended to be asleep. All day today, you acted like nothing happened."

"I was afraid," Alex says simply. "Afraid you regretted it in the morning. Afraid it was just... physical. Something that happened in the dark that you wouldn't want to acknowledge in daylight."

Greg's hand finds Alex's face in the darkness, thumb stroking along his cheekbone. "And now? Are you still afraid?"

Alex leans into the touch, a gesture of vulnerability that makes Greg's chest ache. "Yes," he admits. "But not enough to pretend anymore."

The honesty in his voice breaks something open in Greg's chest. He kisses Alex again, pouring everything he can't yet say into the contact—apology for taking without asking, gratitude for the truth, promise of more honesty between them.

"I thought I'd crossed a line," Greg confesses against Alex's lips. "Taken advantage. I spent all day hating myself for it."

"You didn't," Alex assures him, his hand sliding up to cup Greg's face. "I wanted it. I just... couldn't find a way to tell you."

"So instead you let me think I'd—what? Molested you in your sleep?" There's no real anger in Greg's voice, just bewilderment.

"Like I said, I'm not very good at this," Alex reminds him, a note of apology in his voice. 

Greg laughs softly, the sound half disbelief, half relief. "That's the understatement of the century."

His hand moves lower, finding the hem of Alex's t-shirt, slipping underneath to touch warm skin. Alex's breath catches, his body going tense beneath Greg's fingers.

"Is this okay?" Greg asks, suddenly uncertain again.

"Yes," Alex breathes, the word barely audible. "More than okay."

Greg's hand explores, learning the contours of Alex's body, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin as Alex responds to his touch. It's intoxicating, this freedom to touch after years of careful distance, of accidental contact immediately withdrawn.

"I've thought about this," Greg confesses, his voice rough with desire. "More times than I should admit."

"Tell me," Alex says, and there's something in his tone—a need to hear the words, to know he's not alone in this wanting.

Greg's hand continues its exploration, moving higher under Alex's shirt. "I've thought about touching you. Tasting you." His thumb brushes over Alex's nipple, drawing a sharp intake of breath. "Making you make those sounds you made last night."

Alex's hips shift restlessly against the mattress. "What else?"

Greg smiles in the darkness, hearing the need in Alex's voice. "I've thought about you touching me. About your hands—" He captures one of Alex's hands, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the palm. "These precise, perfect hands on me."

Alex's fingers curl against Greg's cheek. "Show me," he says, his voice steadier now, more certain. "Show me what you want."

Greg guides Alex's hand lower, down his chest, over his stomach, to where he's already hard and wanting. Alex's touch is tentative at first, exploratory, then grows more confident as Greg responds with a low groan.

"Like this?" Alex asks, his voice a mixture of uncertainty and desire.

"Yes," Greg breathes, hips arching into the touch. "Just like that."

They learn each other slowly in the darkness, hands and mouths exploring, discovering what draws gasps and moans, what makes muscles tense and relax. It's messy and imperfect and occasionally awkward, punctuated by whispered questions and breathy reassurances.

And it's perfect in its imperfection, in the honesty of their responses, in the way Alex gradually loses his careful composure under Greg's hands and mouth, the way Greg finds himself undone by Alex's increasing confidence.

When they finally lie tangled together, breathless and sated, the storm outside seems to have abated slightly, as if mirroring their own transition from turbulence to calm.

"Okay?" Greg asks, pressing a kiss to Alex's temple, tasting salt on his skin.

"Mmm," Alex hums, his body relaxed against Greg's in a way it's never been before. "More than okay."

Greg smiles against Alex's hair, a complicated happiness expanding in his chest. There are still conversations to be had, implications to be considered, a future to be navigated. But for now, in the darkness of the storm-surrounded cottage, with Alex warm and real in his arms, those concerns seem distant and manageable.

"We should sleep," Alex murmurs, already sounding half there.

"We should," Greg agrees, though he's reluctant to close his eyes, to end this moment.

Alex shifts closer, his head finding the hollow of Greg's shoulder as if it was made to fit there. His breathing gradually slows, deepens, his body growing heavier against Greg's side.

Greg lies awake a little longer, listening to the rain against the windows and Alex's steady breathing, marveling at how much can change in a single day, a single night. Tomorrow will bring complications, questions, perhaps even regrets. But tonight, in this moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

When sleep finally claims him, Greg's last conscious thought is that being stranded by the storm might be the best thing that's ever happened to him.

Morning comes with pale sunlight filtering through the curtains and the unfamiliar but welcome weight of Alex's body pressed against his side. Greg wakes slowly, momentarily disoriented by the warmth and closeness, then remembers with a rush of feeling that makes his heart skip.

Alex is still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it rarely is when he's awake, all the careful control and precision temporarily abandoned. Greg studies him in the gentle morning light, cataloging details he's never been allowed to observe so openly before—the fan of dark lashes against his cheek, the slight stubble shadowing his jaw, the small scar near his eyebrow that Greg has never noticed before.

It's a gift, this unguarded moment, and Greg treasures it even as he wonders what will happen when Alex wakes, when the reality of what they've done must be faced in daylight.

As if sensing Greg's gaze, Alex stirs, his breathing changing rhythm as he transitions toward wakefulness. Greg holds his breath, suddenly nervous. Will Alex regret last night? Will he retreat behind his careful composure, pretend nothing has changed?

Alex's eyes open, focusing immediately on Greg's face. For one heart-stopping moment, his expression is unreadable, and Greg feels a cold knot of fear form in his stomach.

Then Alex smiles—a small, private smile that Greg has rarely seen before—and the knot dissolves into warmth.

"Morning," Alex says, his voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," Greg replies, relief making him almost giddy.

Alex stretches slightly, his body moving against Greg's in a way that sends a pleasant shiver through him. Then he settles back, still close, still touching, showing no inclination to put distance between them.

"Sleep well?" Greg asks, unable to keep a hint of smugness from his voice.

Alex's smile widens a fraction. "Better than I have in years."

The admission, simple as it is, makes something expand in Greg's chest—a happiness too big to contain. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Alex's lips, morning breath be damned.

Alex responds without hesitation, his hand coming up to cup Greg's face. The kiss is gentle, unhurried, lacking the urgent need of last night but carrying its own sweetness.

When they part, Alex's expression has grown more serious, though not in a way that suggests regret. "We should talk about this," he says, ever the practical one.

"Must we?" Greg asks, not really joking. "Couldn't we just... continue?"

"Continue what, exactly?" Alex's tone is genuinely curious rather than challenging.

The question makes Greg pause. What exactly are they doing? What does he want this to be? The answers seem both obvious and terrifyingly complex.

"This," Greg says finally, gesturing vaguely between them. "Us. Whatever this is becoming."

Alex studies him, his gaze thoughtful. "And what do you want it to become?"

It's the question Greg has been avoiding even in his own mind, the one that carries the most risk, the most potential for pain. But looking at Alex now, seeing the careful vulnerability in his expression, Greg finds he can't offer anything less than honesty.

"Everything," he says simply. "I want everything with you, Alex Honre. Have for years."

Alex's breath catches audibly. For a moment, he looks almost stricken, and Greg feels a surge of panic. Has he said too much, too soon?

Then Alex's expression softens, and he reaches out to touch Greg's face with gentle fingers. "I've wanted that too," he admits quietly. "But I never thought... never let myself believe it could happen."

Relief washes through Greg, so intense it's almost dizzying. "Why not?"

Alex's smile turns self-deprecating. "Look at me, Greg. I'm not exactly—" He gestures at himself, a dismissive motion. "And you're... well, you."

The implication makes Greg frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're Greg Davies," Alex says, as if that explains everything. "Larger than life. Charismatic. Beautiful. Everyone wants you."

"And I want you," Greg says firmly, catching Alex's hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. "Only you. For longer than I care to admit."

Alex's cheeks flush slightly under Greg's intense gaze. "I should probably confess something else."

"Another confession?" Greg raises an eyebrow, his thumb still tracing circles on Alex's palm. "I'm not sure my heart can take any more revelations this morning."

Alex shifts slightly, his eyes dropping to their joined hands. "This trip... it wasn't entirely spontaneous."

"No?" Greg prompts when Alex hesitates.

"No." Alex takes a deep breath. "I planned it. Specifically for us to be alone together." His voice grows quieter. "I thought maybe, away from everything and everyone else, I might finally find the courage to tell you how I felt."

Greg stares at him, momentarily speechless. "You planned this?"

Alex nods, looking slightly embarrassed. "The cottage belongs to one of my old uni mates. I asked him months ago about availability. When he mentioned this week, I thought... well, I thought it might be our chance." His fingers tighten around Greg's. "But in the end, you were the brave one. If you hadn't... last night, I mean... I'm not sure I would have ever said anything."

"You sneaky bastard," Greg says, but there's no heat in his words, only wonder. "All this time I thought it was just a convenient retreat."

"It was that too," Alex hurries to add. "I did want us to have a moment to just relax. But mostly..." He meets Greg's eyes again. "Mostly I just wanted you. Away from distractions. Away from our normal lives where it's so easy to keep pretending."

Greg shakes his head, amazed. "And here I thought I was being impulsive, taking a risk."

"You were," Alex says softly. "Thank you for being braver than me."

Greg pulls him closer, overwhelmed by this revelation. "I wasn't brave. I was desperate. And a bit drunk."

"Still," Alex murmurs against his chest. "You did what I couldn't. What I've wanted to do for years."

Greg presses a kiss to the top of Alex's head, breathing in the scent of him. "Years, huh?"

"Too many to count," Alex admits. "I can't even remember when it started. Just that one day I looked at you and realized you weren't just my friend or colleague anymore. That somewhere along the way, you'd become... essential."

The word hangs between them, simple yet profound. Greg feels his throat tighten with emotion.

"That's a good word for it," he says roughly. "Essential. That's what you are to me too."

They lie together in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the revelation settling between them like a gift. Outside, birds call to each other, the storm having passed in the night.

"So what happens now?" Greg asks eventually, voicing the question they've both been avoiding.

Alex's body tenses slightly against his. "I don't know. I hadn't planned quite this far ahead."

"The great Alex Horne without a plan?" Greg teases gently. "I'm shocked."

"I do have some ideas," Alex admits, his fingers tracing patterns on Greg's chest. "But they're more... aspirational than practical at this point."

"Tell me," Greg encourages. "I want to hear your aspirations."

Alex hesitates, then props himself up on one elbow to look directly at Greg. "I want us to be together. Properly. Not just these few days in a cottage, but... after. Back in our real lives."

The directness of the statement, so unlike Alex's usual careful approach, takes Greg's breath away. "I want that too," he says, the words feeling inadequate for the depth of his feeling. "More than anything."

"It won't be simple," Alex warns. "There are complications. Work. Family. Friends."

"When has anything worthwhile ever been simple?" Greg counters. His hand comes up to cup Alex's face. "We'll figure it out. Together."

Alex leans into the touch, his eyes closing briefly. "Together," he repeats, as if testing the word.

Greg's stomach chooses that moment to rumble loudly, breaking the intensity of the moment. Alex laughs, the sound bright and unguarded in a way Greg has rarely heard.

"Breakfast?" Alex suggests, already shifting as if to get up.

Greg tightens his hold. "Not yet," he says. "Stay a bit longer."

Alex settles back against him without protest. "The storm's passed," he observes, glancing toward the window where sunlight streams in. "We might be able to get out sooner than expected."

"Are you in a hurry to leave?" Greg asks, trying to keep his tone light despite the sudden anxiety the question provokes.

"No," Alex says immediately, his hand finding Greg's under the covers. "Not at all. I was just thinking practically."

"Well, stop it," Greg instructs, pressing a kiss to Alex's temple. "Practicality can wait. We've got more important things to focus on right now."

"Like what?" Alex asks, though the slight upturn of his mouth suggests he already knows.

Greg's answer is to roll them over, pinning Alex beneath him with gentle pressure. "Like making up for lost time," he murmurs, lowering his head for a kiss that quickly deepens into something more urgent.

Alex responds eagerly, his body arching up into Greg's. There's less hesitation than last night, more certainty in his movements as his hands explore Greg's body with increasing confidence.

They take their time, learning each other in the clear light of morning, finding what makes each other gasp and moan and plead for more. It's different from the night before—less frantic, more deliberate, the desperation of first discovery replaced by the pleasure of deeper exploration.

Afterward, they lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied, Greg's larger frame curled protectively around Alex's leaner one. Alex's breathing has just begun to slow when his stomach makes a noise that rivals Greg's earlier one.

"Now can we have breakfast?" Greg asks, grinning against Alex's shoulder.

"I suppose we've earned it," Alex concedes, making no move to extricate himself from Greg's embrace.

They remain like that for another few minutes, neither willing to be the first to break the contact. Finally, Alex sighs and shifts, pressing a quick kiss to Greg's chest before sitting up.

"I'll make coffee," he says, reaching for his discarded pajama bottoms.

Greg watches him dress with unabashed appreciation. In the morning light, Alex looks different somehow—still the same precise, methodical man Greg has known for years, but with a new openness to his movements, a subtle ease that wasn't there before.

"What?" Alex asks, noticing Greg's scrutiny as he pulls his t-shirt over his head.

"Nothing," Greg says, smiling. "Just enjoying the view."

A flush spreads across Alex's cheeks, but he doesn't look away. "I could say the same," he admits, his eyes traveling over Greg's still-bare chest.

The frankness of his gaze, so different from the careful way Alex has always avoided looking too directly at him before, sends a pleasant warmth through Greg's body.

"Keep looking at me like that and breakfast will have to wait even longer," Greg warns.

Alex's blush deepens, but there's a hint of mischief in his eyes that Greg finds utterly captivating. "Later, perhaps," he says, his voice dropping slightly. "I do have plans for today that involve us actually leaving this bed at some point."

"Plans?" Greg raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do tell."

"Breakfast first," Alex insists, already moving toward the door. "Then plans."

Greg watches him go, listening to his footsteps on the stairs, the familiar sounds of Alex moving around the kitchen below. The normalcy of it is comforting—Alex making coffee, preparing breakfast, creating order—but now infused with new meaning, new possibilities.

He stretches, feeling pleasantly sore in ways that bring back vivid memories of the night before and the morning's activities. Then he reaches for his own clothes, pulled on hastily and with far less precision than Alex's careful dressing.

Downstairs, he finds Alex at the stove, expertly flipping what appear to be perfect golden pancakes. Greg moves behind him, wrapping his arms around Alex's waist and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck.

"Is this okay?" he asks, suddenly uncertain about the boundaries of this new thing between them.

Alex leans back into the embrace, his body relaxing against Greg's. "More than okay," he confirms, echoing his words from the night before. "Though I can't promise the pancakes won't suffer if you distract me too much."

"We can't have that," Greg says, giving him one more squeeze before stepping back. "Your pancakes are a national treasure."

Alex glances over his shoulder, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Now you're just being ridiculous."

"I'm being honest," Greg insists, moving to pour them both coffee. "Your pancakes are the eighth wonder of the world. Poets should write sonnets about them."

"Stop," Alex protests, but he's laughing now, the sound making Greg's heart feel too large for his chest.

They eat at the small kitchen table, their knees touching underneath, conversation flowing easily between them. It's familiar—they've shared countless meals over the years—yet entirely new, charged with a different energy.

"So," Greg says when they've finished eating. "These plans of yours. Care to share?"

Alex takes a sip of coffee, his expression thoughtful. "I thought we might walk down to the beach, if the path is passable. It's supposed to be beautiful after a storm—lots of interesting things washed up."

It's such a perfectly Alex suggestion—practical, slightly educational, involving nature and observation—that Greg can't help but smile. "Beach combing sounds perfect," he agrees. "Though I'm not sure my shoes survived yesterday's mud bath."

"I brought extras," Alex admits. "I may have... over-packed slightly."

"Of course you did," Greg says fondly. "Always prepared for every contingency."

"Not every contingency," Alex counters, his eyes meeting Greg's over the rim of his coffee mug. "I certainly didn't pack for... this."

The word encompasses everything that's happened between them, everything that's changed. Greg reaches across the table, covering Alex's hand with his own.

"No regrets?" he asks, needing to be certain.

"None," Alex says immediately, turning his hand to interlace their fingers. "You?"

"Only that we waited so long," Greg says honestly.

Alex nods, understanding in his eyes. "We have time to make up for that."

The simple statement contains a promise that makes Greg's chest tighten with emotion. Time together. A future. Things he's wanted for longer than he's been willing to admit, even to himself.

"We do," he agrees, squeezing Alex's hand. "Starting with finding those extra shoes of yours. The beach awaits."

They clean up breakfast together, moving around the small kitchen with a new awareness of each other, finding excuses for small touches and brief kisses that make the mundane task feel like something precious.

As they prepare for their walk, gathering jackets and Alex's spare walking shoes, Greg finds himself watching Alex with a sense of wonder that hasn't diminished since waking up beside him. This careful, precise, extraordinary man who has been by his side for years is now his to touch, to hold, to kiss. The thought feels both miraculous and somehow inevitable, as if they've been moving toward this moment all along.

Outside, the world is transformed. The storm has left the landscape washed clean, colors more vibrant under the clear morning light. The coastal path looks muddy but passable, winding down toward the beach that's visible as a strip of gray-brown between green cliffs.

Greg breathes deeply, filling his lungs with air that tastes of salt and damp earth. Beside him, Alex adjusts the collar of his jacket with precise movements, his expression focused as he surveys the path ahead.

"We should be careful on the steeper sections," Alex says, already analyzing potential hazards. "The rain will have made everything slippery."

"I have you to catch me if I fall," Greg replies, bumping his shoulder gently against Alex's.

The casual touch draws a small smile from Alex, one of those rare, unguarded expressions that Greg has always treasured and now feels privileged to see more frequently.

"I'm not sure physics would be on our side there," Alex points out, but he reaches for Greg's hand as they start down the path, his fingers warm and certain as they intertwine with Greg's.

Walking hand-in-hand feels both strange and completely natural. Greg finds himself hyperaware of the connection between them—the slight calluses on Alex's fingers, the gentle pressure as he occasionally tightens his grip when they navigate a particularly muddy section, the warmth that seems to travel up Greg's arm from the point of contact.

They don't talk much as they make their way down to the beach, but the silence is comfortable, filled with the sounds of birds reclaiming territory after the storm, waves crashing against the shore below, their own footsteps squelching in the mud. Greg steals glances at Alex's profile, admiring the way sunlight catches in his hair, the focused expression as he navigates the path, the slight flush on his cheeks from exertion or perhaps something more.

The beach, when they reach it, is a treasure trove of storm debris. The tide has retreated, leaving behind a wide expanse of sand and pebbles strewn with seaweed, driftwood, shells, and other objects torn from the seabed and flung ashore by the powerful waves.

Alex immediately begins scanning the beach with the methodical attention he brings to everything, his eyes bright with interest. Greg watches him bend to examine a piece of sea glass, turning it over in his fingers with careful precision.

"Look at this," Alex says, holding up the smooth green glass for Greg's inspection. "It's been in the ocean for years to get this worn down."

Greg takes it, feeling the weight of it in his palm, admiring the way sunlight passes through the translucent surface. "It's beautiful," he agrees, handing it back to Alex who pockets it with a pleased expression.

They wander along the shoreline, Alex stopping frequently to examine interesting finds—unusual shells, perfectly rounded pebbles, a piece of driftwood sculpted by water into something that resembles a bird in flight. Greg finds himself collecting things too, not because they particularly interest him but because he enjoys the way Alex's face lights up when he presents each new treasure for inspection.

"You don't have to pretend to be fascinated by beach debris for my sake," Alex says after a while, his perceptiveness catching Greg off guard.

Greg grins, caught out. "Am I that obvious?"

"Completely," Alex confirms, but there's fondness in his voice. "You've never been one for... what did you call it once? 'Obsessive cataloging of mundane objects'?"

"That does sound like me," Greg admits, impressed by Alex's memory. "But I'm enjoying watching you enjoy it. That's enough."

The simple honesty of the statement seems to catch Alex off guard. He looks away, focusing on the horizon where sea meets sky in a crisp line, but not before Greg catches the flush spreading across his cheeks.

"I've always liked that about you," Alex says after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost lost beneath the sound of waves. "The way you find enjoyment in other people's enthusiasm, even when you don't share it."

Greg moves closer, drawn by the unexpected vulnerability in Alex's voice. "Only certain people," he corrects gently. "Your enthusiasm specifically."

Alex turns to look at him then, his expression open in a way that makes Greg's chest tighten. For a moment, they simply stand there on the empty beach, the wind tugging at their clothes, the sun warm on their faces, something unspoken but profound passing between them.

Then Alex smiles—one of those rare, full smiles that transform his entire face—and holds out his hand. "Come on," he says. "There's a cove around that headland that should be accessible now the tide's out. It's supposed to be particularly good for fossils."

Greg takes his hand without hesitation, letting Alex lead him across the wet sand toward the rocky outcropping that juts into the sea. He's never cared about fossils in his life, but right now he can't imagine anything he'd rather do than follow Alex to this supposedly fossil-rich cove.

The walk around the headland requires careful navigation of slippery rocks and shallow tide pools. Alex moves with surprising agility, his hand steady in Greg's as he points out the safest path. Greg follows, more cautious with his larger frame, grateful for Alex's guidance.

The cove, when they reach it, is a perfect semicircle of sand sheltered by towering cliffs on three sides, completely isolated from the main beach. The only sounds are the gentle lap of waves and the distant cry of gulls overhead.

"It's like we've discovered our own private world," Greg says, looking around at the enclosed space.

Alex nods, releasing Greg's hand to explore the base of the cliff where dark rocks are embedded in lighter stone. "These are the fossil beds," he explains, his voice taking on the slightly more precise tone he uses when sharing information he finds particularly interesting. "The darker rocks contain impressions of prehistoric plants and sea creatures."

Greg watches him crouch down to examine the rocks more closely, admiring the lean lines of his body, the focused intensity of his expression. There's something deeply attractive about Alex like this—completely absorbed in something that fascinates him, all his careful composure channeled into observation and discovery.

"Here," Alex says suddenly, straightening up with something in his hand. "Look at this."

Greg moves closer as Alex holds out what appears to be an ordinary dark stone. But as he turns it over, Greg sees the clear impression of what looks like a spiral shell embedded in its surface.

"That's amazing," Greg says, genuinely impressed. "How old is it?"

"Oh, millions of years," Alex replies, carefully placing the fossil in Greg's palm. "From when this entire area was under a shallow sea."

Greg stares at the stone, trying to comprehend the timescale Alex is describing. The spiral pattern is perfectly preserved, a record of a life lived when humans weren't even a distant evolutionary possibility.

"It makes you feel rather insignificant, doesn't it?" he says, running his thumb over the ancient impression.

Alex looks up at him, his expression thoughtful. "I was thinking the opposite, actually. That there's something remarkable about being able to connect with something so distant in time." He pauses, his eyes meeting Greg's. "About connections that transcend ordinary boundaries."

The words hang between them, loaded with meaning beyond the fossil in Greg's hand. Greg feels his heart rate quicken, understanding exactly what Alex is really talking about.

"Some connections are worth waiting for," he says quietly, "even if it takes longer than expected to recognize them."

Alex nods, his eyes not leaving Greg's face. "Yes," he agrees simply. "They are."

Greg sets the fossil carefully on a nearby rock, then reaches for Alex, drawing him closer. The kiss is gentle at first, a warm press of lips that quickly deepens as Alex responds with unexpected eagerness. Greg's hands find their way to Alex's waist, holding him steady as the wind gusts around them in their private cove.

When they break apart, Alex's cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright. "I never imagined this," he admits, his voice slightly breathless. "Us. Here. Like this."

"No?" Greg asks, keeping his arms around Alex, enjoying the solid reality of him. "Never?"

"Well," Alex amends, a hint of mischief in his expression that Greg finds utterly captivating, "perhaps I've imagined some version of it. Occasionally."

"Only occasionally?" Greg teases, pressing another quick kiss to Alex's lips.

"More than occasionally," Alex confesses against Greg's mouth. "More than I should probably admit."

The admission sends a pleasant warmth spreading through Greg's chest. "Tell me more about these imaginings," he suggests, his voice dropping lower. "Were they anything like this?"

He demonstrates with another kiss, deeper this time, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Alex's head. Alex makes a small sound of approval, pressing closer, his own hands finding purchase on Greg's shoulders.

"Similar," Alex manages when they separate for breath. "Though reality is proving superior to imagination."

"High praise from someone with your creative abilities," Greg says, smiling against Alex's temple.

They stand like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms at the edge of the sea, the sun warm on their backs, the wind tugging at their clothes. It feels unreal somehow, this moment suspended outside ordinary time—like they've stepped into some parallel universe where they've always been allowed this closeness, this honesty.

Eventually, Alex shifts in Greg's embrace, turning to look out at the sea. "We should probably head back soon," he says, though he makes no move to step away. "The tide will be turning."

Greg nods, understanding the practical concern while silently acknowledging the metaphorical tide that's turned between them. "Lead on," he says, releasing Alex but immediately reaching for his hand. "I'm following you."

The walk back to the cottage is slower, both of them reluctant to end their time alone on the beach. They stop frequently—ostensibly to examine interesting finds, but more often simply to steal kisses or to stand in comfortable silence, watching the waves crash against the shore.

By the time they climb the path back up to the cottage, the sun has moved past its zenith, casting longer shadows across the landscape. Greg's stomach reminds him that breakfast was hours ago, a fact he mentions as they reach the cottage door.

"I thought we might have a late lunch," Alex says, unlocking the door with his usual precision. "I brought supplies for sandwiches. Nothing fancy, but substantial."

Inside, they move around the kitchen together, preparing lunch with the easy coordination of long familiarity now enhanced by new intimacy. Greg slices bread while Alex arranges fillings, their bodies brushing occasionally in the small space, each contact sending a small thrill through Greg's body.

They eat at the small kitchen table, knees touching underneath, conversation flowing easily between them. It's domestic in a way Greg hasn't experienced in years, comfortable yet exciting, ordinary yet extraordinary because it's Alex across from him, Alex's foot occasionally nudging his, Alex's smile warming him from the inside out.

After lunch, they check their phones for the first time since morning. The signal has improved with the clearing weather, messages and emails from the outside world flooding in to remind them of the lives waiting back in London.

"The road's still closed," Alex reports, scrolling through local news updates. "But they're saying it might be cleared by tomorrow afternoon if the weather holds."

Greg nods, feeling a complicated mix of emotions at this news. Part of him wants more time in this bubble they've created, away from the complexities of their real lives. Another part recognizes the need to test this new relationship against those realities.

"So one more night," he says, watching Alex's face carefully, noting the subtle tension around his eyes.

"One more night," Alex confirms. His expression shifts to something more deliberate, a focus that Greg recognizes from their work together. "We should make the most of it."

The statement hangs between them, loaded with possibilities. Greg finds himself smiling, a warmth spreading through his chest at the implication."I think I have some ideas for how we could spend that time," Greg says, his voice deepening as he reaches for Alex's hand across the table.

Alex's fingers intertwine with his, warm and certain. "Do you now?"

"Mmm," Greg confirms, watching a flush spread across Alex's cheeks. "Several, in fact. Some involve very little clothing."

Alex's breath catches audibly, his eyes darkening. "I might have some ideas of my own," he admits, his thumb tracing small circles on Greg's palm that send shivers up his arm.

"Care to share with the class?" Greg asks, leaning forward.

Instead of answering, Alex stands, tugging Greg to his feet. "I think," he says, his voice steady despite the color in his cheeks, "this might be more of a practical demonstration."

Greg follows willingly as Alex leads him toward the stairs, their joined hands a connection that feels both new and somehow fated. With hours of possibility unfurling ahead of them, of uninterrupted time in their private world before reality intrudes.

"Lead on," Greg says, his heart racing with anticipation as they climb the stairs together. "I'm all yours."

Chapter Text

Greg wakes to a sensation unlike anything he's experienced before. The bedroom is still dark, though a faint glow of pre-dawn light filters through the curtains. For a moment, he's disoriented, caught between dreams and reality. Then the sensation registers again—warm, wet pressure between his legs, behind him.

His breath catches as he realizes what's happening. Alex's hands are gently spreading him open, and that's Alex's tongue, tracing delicate patterns against his most intimate place. The unexpectedness of it sends a jolt of pleasure up his spine so intense he gasps aloud.

"Alex," he manages, his voice rough with sleep and arousal. "What are you—oh, Christ."

Alex hums against him, the vibration sending another wave of sensation through Greg's body. He buries his face in the pillow, overwhelmed by the intimacy of what Alex is doing. No one has ever—he's never allowed anyone to—

Alex's tongue becomes more insistent, circling and pressing with careful precision. Greg's entire body feels like it's melting into the mattress, his cock hardening against the sheets as Alex continues his methodical exploration.

When Alex finally pulls back, Greg turns his head to look at him. In the dim light, he can just make out Alex's satisfied expression, his lips wet and his eyes dark with desire.

"You're a bloody minx," Greg says, his voice still unsteady. "All this sexual appetite you've apparently been hiding."

A small smile plays at the corner of Alex's mouth. "Not hiding," he corrects. "Saving. For the right moment."

The simple admission makes something warm unfurl in Greg's chest. He reaches for Alex, pulling him up for a kiss that's deep and thorough. The taste of himself on Alex's tongue should be strange, but instead it feels oddly intimate, another barrier crossed between them.

"Did you like it?" Alex asks when they break apart, his usual confidence tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

"Couldn't you tell?" Greg runs his fingers through Alex's hair, marveling at how soft it feels. "I nearly came off the bed."

The uncertainty in Alex's expression dissolves, replaced by that same satisfied look. "I thought you might," he says, settling more comfortably beside Greg. "You seemed receptive to... exploration... last night."

Greg laughs, the sound rusty in the quiet room. "That's one way of putting it." He shifts onto his side, facing Alex properly. "Any other surprises you're planning to spring on me?"

"Several," Alex admits, and there's something almost mischievous in his tone that makes Greg's pulse quicken. "But not all at once. I believe in pacing."

"Of course you do," Greg says fondly. "Methodical as always."

Alex's hand traces a path down Greg's chest, fingers mapping the contours with deliberate attention. "I find that careful preparation yields the best results."

The touch, combined with the implication in Alex's words, sends heat pooling in Greg's belly. He catches Alex's hand, bringing it to his lips. "And what results are you hoping for this morning?"

Alex's eyes darken further at the question. "I thought perhaps," he says carefully, "we might explore some of those... possibilities... We discussed last night."

Greg's body responds immediately to the suggestion, his cock hardening further against the sheets. "I'm certainly open to exploration," he agrees, his voice rougher than before.

Alex's smile widens into something almost predatory. "I was rather counting on that," he says, and reaches for Greg again.

The touch of Alex's hand against his skin makes Greg's breath hitch. Alex moves with that same deliberate precision he brings to everything, but there's something different about it now—something hungry that Greg hadn't quite expected.

"You're full of surprises," Greg murmurs, watching Alex's face in the dim morning light. The careful composure Alex usually maintains seems to be slipping, replaced by something more raw, more immediate.

Alex's fingers trail lower, ghosting over Greg's hip bone before moving inward. "I've been thinking about this," he admits quietly. "About what you might like."

The confession sends a jolt through Greg's system. The idea that Alex has been planning, considering, imagining—it's almost overwhelming. "Have you now?"

"Mmm." Alex's hand finds its destination, wrapping around Greg's cock with a confidence that makes Greg's head fall back against the pillow. "I've had quite a lot of time to think, actually."

Greg wants to ask how long, wants to know when this started for Alex, but the steady rhythm Alex sets with his hand drives the questions from his mind. Instead, he finds himself arching into the touch, his body responding with an eagerness that surprises him.

"Alex," he manages, and the name comes out rougher than he intended.

Alex leans closer, his breath warm against Greg's ear. "Tell me what you want," he says, and there's something almost commanding in his voice that makes Greg shiver.

The question hangs in the air between them, weighted with possibility. Greg turns his head to meet Alex's eyes, seeing his own desire reflected there. "I want you," he says simply. "However you'll have me."

Something shifts in Alex's expression—surprise, perhaps, or gratitude. His hand stills for a moment before resuming its movement, slower now, more deliberate. "We have time," he says, and Greg can hear the promise in it. "I know," Greg agrees, his voice thick. "But I don't want to wait."

Alex's eyes darken at this admission, his pupils dilating visibly even in the dim light. His hand slides from Greg's cock, trailing lower, fingers pressing gently against the spot his tongue had explored earlier. Greg gasps at the contact.

"Do you have...?" Alex asks, the question trailing off meaningfully.

Greg nods toward the bedside table. "Top drawer."

Alex reaches over, fumbling briefly before producing a small bottle of lube. He hesitates, looking down at Greg with an expression that seems to contain equal parts desire and uncertainty.

"What is it?" Greg asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

"I didn't think to bring more protection," Alex admits, a faint flush spreading across his cheeks. "I wasn't exactly planning this part. I had hope, of course."

Greg considers this for a moment. The responsible part of his brain knows they should stop, wait, be sensible. But the part of him that's wanted Alex for longer than he cares to admit has other ideas.

"I'm clean," he says quietly. "Got tested after my last... well, it's been a while, honestly."

Alex's expression softens. "Me too. Both the clean part and the 'it's been a while' part."

They look at each other in the growing morning light, the weight of the decision hanging between them. Greg reaches up, cupping Alex's face in his hand.

"I want to feel you," he says, the words barely above a whisper. "Just you."

Something shifts in Alex's expression—a decision made, a line crossed. He nods once, decisively, before leaning down to kiss Greg with a tenderness that makes his chest ache.

The preparation is slow, methodical in that way that's so quintessentially Alex. One finger becomes two, then three, each movement careful and precise until Greg is pushing back against his hand, breathing ragged.

"Alex," he gasps, "please."

Alex withdraws his fingers, reaching for the lube again. Greg watches as he slicks himself, the sight of Alex's hand moving over his own cock almost unbearably erotic. Then Alex is positioning himself, the blunt pressure against Greg's entrance making him hold his breath.

The first push is slow, careful, Alex's eyes fixed on Greg's face as if searching for any sign of discomfort. The stretch burns slightly, but the fullness—God, the fullness is indescribable. Greg forces himself to breathe, to relax, to accept.

"Okay?" Alex whispers, holding perfectly still once he's fully seated.

Greg nods, unable to form words. The sensation of Alex inside him, with nothing between them, is overwhelming—not just physically but emotionally. He feels exposed, vulnerable in a way he hasn't allowed himself to be in years.

Alex begins to move, slowly at first, each thrust careful and controlled. But as Greg's body adjusts, as the initial discomfort gives way to pleasure, Alex's restraint seems to slip. His movements become more fluid, more urgent, his breathing quickening to match Greg's own.

"Greg," Alex gasps, and there's something in his voice Greg hasn't heard before—a rawness, a need that echoes his own. "You feel—"

"I know," Greg manages, his hands gripping Alex's shoulders. "I know."

The rhythm between them builds, bodies moving together with increasing urgency. Greg wraps his legs around Alex's waist, changing the angle, and suddenly Alex is hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. The pleasure builds like a wave, threatening to overwhelm him completely.

Alex's composure is crumbling now, his careful control giving way to something more primal. His movements become erratic, desperate, his face buried against Greg's neck as he gasps for breath.

"I'm close," Alex warns, his voice strained. "Greg, I'm—"

"Don't stop," Greg urges, one hand moving between them to grasp his own cock. "Please don't stop."

The dual sensation—Alex inside him, his own hand working in rhythm with Alex's thrusts—pushes Greg toward the edge faster than he expected. He comes with a shout that he muffles against Alex's shoulder, his body clenching around Alex's cock as pleasure crashes through him.

The sensation seems to push Alex over as well. With one final, deep thrust, he stiffens, a broken sound escaping his throat as he pulses inside Greg. The feeling is indescribable—intimate in a way Greg hadn't anticipated, the heat of Alex's release making something primal inside him sing with satisfaction.

For a long moment, they stay like that, bodies joined, breath mingling as they come down from the high. Then Alex carefully withdraws, collapsing beside Greg on the bed. The loss of connection makes Greg feel suddenly vulnerable, uncertain.

"That was..." Alex begins, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words.

"Yeah," Greg agrees, turning his head to look at Alex's profile in the strengthening morning light.

Alex's hand finds his on the rumpled sheets, fingers intertwining with a casualness that feels anything but casual. "I should probably apologize for the lack of planning," he says finally. "Not very responsible of me."

Greg squeezes his hand. "I think we're both grown men capable of making our own bad decisions."

This draws a laugh from Alex, the sound warming something in Greg's chest. "Is that what this was?" Alex asks, turning to face him. "A bad decision?"

The question hangs in the air, heavier than it should be for post-coital conversation. Greg studies Alex's face, searching for the right answer.

"No, love," he says finally. "No, I don't think it was." The quiet between them stretches, comfortable rather than awkward. Alex traces patterns on Greg's chest, his fingers moving with the same deliberate precision he brings to everything.

"You know," Greg says after a moment, his voice still rough, "that was actually my first time. With a man, I mean."

Alex's hand stills on Greg's chest. "Really?" There's surprise in his voice, but no judgment.

Greg nods, feeling strangely vulnerable despite the intimacy they've just shared. "Never quite had the courage before. Plenty of opportunities, mind you, but I always..." He trails off, searching for the right words. "I suppose I was afraid of being that exposed with someone."

"You seemed rather... experienced," Alex observes, his fingers resuming their movement.

A laugh escapes Greg, low and slightly embarrassed. "Well, I've had plenty of practice on my own. Got quite the collection of toys hidden away. Been fucking myself for years, if we're being honest."

Alex's eyes darken at this confession, his pupils dilating visibly. "Have you now?"

"Don't look so surprised," Greg says, nudging him with an elbow. "A man gets curious. And it feels bloody fantastic, as you well know."

"I do know," Alex agrees, his voice dropping to that lower register that sends shivers down Greg's spine. "I'm quite versatile in my preferences, actually."

Greg raises an eyebrow. "Are you telling me you'd let me return the favor more?"

"More than let you," Alex says, and there's something almost challenging in his tone. "I'd very much enjoy it. I like switching roles, as it were. Keeps things interesting."

The image this conjures—Alex spread beneath him, open and wanting—sends a fresh wave of heat through Greg's body, despite how recently he's come. "Christ," he mutters. "You can't just say things like that when I'm still recovering."

Alex's smile is smug, self-satisfied in a way that makes Greg want to kiss it off his face. "I believe in setting expectations clearly," he says primly, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the hungry look in his eyes.

"Well, consider me thoroughly informed," Greg says, rolling onto his side to face Alex properly. "And very interested in exploring those possibilities."

"Good," Alex replies simply, leaning in to press a kiss to Greg's shoulder. "Though perhaps after we've had some breakfast. I find I'm rather famished."

The mundane suggestion—so practical, so Alex—makes Greg laugh. "Ever the sensible one," he teases, but he can't deny his own stomach is beginning to growl. "Shower first, though. I'm a mess."

Alex glances down at the evidence of their activities, his expression thoughtful. "We both are. We could save time by showering together."

"Somehow I doubt that would actually save any time," Greg observes dryly.

"Perhaps not," Alex concedes, "but it would certainly be more efficient in terms of water usage."

"Always thinking about efficiency, aren't you?" Greg says, but he's already sitting up, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar soreness. "Alright then, lead the way to this environmentally conscious shower of yours."

Alex slides out of bed with a grace that shouldn't be possible after what they've just done. As he stands, stretching in the morning light, Greg allows himself a moment of pure appreciation. The lean lines of Alex's body, the unexpected definition of muscle beneath pale skin, the casual confidence with which he moves—it's all ridiculously attractive.

"Coming?" Alex asks, glancing back over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

Greg forces himself to focus. "Yeah," he says, pushing himself up from the bed. "Right behind you."

As he follows Alex toward the bathroom, Greg finds himself thinking that while this may have been his first time with a man, he very much hopes it won't be his last. Especially if that man is Alex.

The shower turns out to be exactly as inefficient as Greg predicted, though neither of them seems to mind. By the time they emerge, pink-skinned and thoroughly distracted, the sun has fully risen, filling Alex's bedroom with golden morning light.

"I should probably check my phone," Greg says, rummaging through his discarded clothes. "Make sure the world hasn't ended while we were... otherwise engaged."

Alex nods, wrapping a towel around his waist. "I'll start on breakfast. Preferences?"

"Surprise me," Greg tells him, finally locating his phone under the edge of the bed. "I'm not fussy."

Alex disappears toward the cottage's kitchen, and Greg sits on the edge of the bed, towel draped around his shoulders as he scrolls through notifications. Nothing urgent, thankfully—just the usual collection of emails, social media alerts, and a few texts from friends that can wait.

He's still scrolling through his messages when Alex returns with two mugs of coffee, setting one on the nightstand beside Greg. The domesticity of the gesture feels both natural and strange—like they've crossed some invisible line that neither of them had acknowledged was there.

"Thanks," Greg says, locking his phone and setting it aside. He takes the mug, letting the warmth seep into his palms. "What time is your train tomorrow?"

The question hangs in the air, bringing with it the reality they've both been avoiding since they arrived at the cottage. In less than twenty-four hours, they'll be heading back to London, back to their regular lives, back to the carefully maintained boundaries they've just thoroughly demolished.

Alex sits beside him on the edge of the bed, their shoulders nearly touching. "Ten-thirty," he says after a moment. "Yours?"

"Same," Greg confirms, taking a sip of his coffee. It's exactly how he likes it—strong with just a touch of milk. Of course Alex would remember that detail. "Thought we might as well travel back together."

Alex nods, staring into his own mug as if it contains the answers to questions he hasn't quite figured out how to ask. "And then?" he says finally, his voice carefully neutral.

Greg glances at him, trying to read the expression on Alex's face. "And then," he echoes, "I suppose we go back to our lives."

"Our lives," Alex repeats, the words sounding oddly hollow. He takes a deliberate sip of coffee before continuing. "Which now includes...?"

The unfinished question hangs between them, heavy with implication. Greg feels a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with their physical exertions.

"I don't know," he admits, the honesty feeling both terrifying and necessary. "I've never done this before, Alex. Not with a man, and certainly not with someone who matters as much as you do."

Alex's eyes snap up at this, surprise evident in his expression. "I matter?"

"Of course you bloody matter," Greg says, more forcefully than he intended. "Christ, Alex, did you think this was just a convenient shag in the countryside?"

"No," Alex says quickly, then hesitates. "But I wasn't sure what it was, exactly. For you."

Greg sets his coffee aside, turning to face Alex properly. "I don't know what to call it," he says honestly. "I just know that I've wanted this—wanted you—for longer than I care to admit. And now that it's happened, I'm not particularly interested in pretending it didn't."

Something in Alex's posture relaxes at this admission, though his expression remains carefully controlled. "I've wanted it too," he says quietly. "But there are... complications."

"There always are," Greg agrees, thinking of the tangled web of professional and personal connections that bind them together. "Work, friends, public perception. It's a bloody minefield."

"Not to mention my own..." Alex pauses, searching for the right word. "Limitations."

Greg frowns, not understanding. "Limitations?"

"I'm not exactly known for my emotional accessibility," Alex says, his tone dry but with an undercurrent of genuine concern. "I've been told I can be rather... difficult... to be close to."

The admission surprises Greg, not because he disagrees, but because he's never heard Alex acknowledge it so directly. "Well," he says carefully, "we all have our challenges. I'm not exactly a paragon of emotional stability myself."

"True," Alex concedes, his lips quirking into a small smile. "You do have a tendency toward the dramatic."

"Oi," Greg protests, nudging Alex's shoulder with his own. "I'm a performer. It's part of my charm."

"It is, actually," Alex agrees, his expression softening. "Among other things."

The simple compliment sends a flush of warmth through Greg that has nothing to do with the coffee. "Look," he says, "I don't have all the answers. I don't know exactly how this works when we get back to London. But I know I'd like to figure it out, if you're willing."

Alex is quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping back to his mug. "I'm not good at this," he says finally. "I tend to overthink, over-plan, try to control outcomes that can't be controlled."

"I've noticed," Greg says dryly.

"And you're..." Alex hesitates. "You're important to me, Greg. As a friend, as a colleague, as more. I don't want to ruin that."

Greg feels a twinge of anxiety at these words, but he pushes past it. "Who says it has to be ruined? Maybe it just… evolves."

"Into what, though?" Alex asks, and there's a vulnerability in his voice that Greg rarely hears. "What does this look like, practically speaking? Secret rendezvous between filming? Clandestine text messages? Pretending we're just mates in public while..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely toward the rumpled bed.

Greg considers this, trying to envision the reality of what they're discussing. "I don't know," he admits. "But I don't think it has to be that complicated, at least not right away. We see where it goes. We're careful, yes, but we don't have to act like we're in some kind of espionage film."

"You make it sound simple," Alex says, though his tone suggests he's not convinced.

"It's not simple," Greg acknowledges. "But maybe it doesn't have to be as difficult as you're making it out to be."

Alex gives him a look that's half exasperation, half fondness. "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who spends ninety percent of his waking hours planning for every possible contingency."

"No," Greg agrees, "I'm the one who spends ninety percent of his waking hours worrying what everyone thinks of him."

The admission slips out before he can stop it, more honest than he intended. Alex's expression softens, his hand finding Greg's on the rumpled bedsheet.

"I think quite highly of you," he says quietly. "If that counts for anything."

Greg squeezes his hand, a lump forming in his throat that he tries to swallow down. "It counts for a lot, actually."

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around them. Greg knows there's more to discuss, more to figure out, but for now, the simple acknowledgment that they both want to try feels like enough.

"So," Alex says finally, his tone lighter, "what I'm hearing is that we go back to London, continue our professional relationship as normal, and... see each other. Privately. Without making a grand announcement about it."

"That sounds like a reasonable starting point," Greg agrees, relief washing through him. "Though I should warn you, I'm rubbish at keeping secrets. I have what my sister calls 'an expressive face.'"

This draws a genuine laugh from Alex, the sound warming something in Greg's chest. "I've noticed," Alex says dryly. "We'll just have to work on your poker face."

"Or you could just not look at me during filming," Greg suggests. "That might be easier."

"Not look at you?" Alex raises an eyebrow. "That would certainly raise questions, considering my job largely involves watching what you're doing."

Greg grins, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders. "Fair point. I'll work on the poker face, then."

Alex nods, seemingly satisfied with this plan, though Greg can almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes—cataloging variables, calculating risks, planning contingencies. It's so quintessentially Alex that Greg feels a rush of affection for him.

"You're overthinking again," Greg observes gently.

Alex blinks, his focus returning to the present moment. "Sorry. Habit."

"Don't apologize," Greg tells him. "It's part of what makes you... you. Just don't let it talk you out of this before we've even given it a proper go."

"I'll try," Alex promises, and though his tone is light, Greg can hear the sincerity beneath it. "Though I should warn you, I'm likely to have moments of panic about what we're doing."

"That's alright," Greg assures him. "I'll have them too. We can panic together."

This draws another small smile from Alex. "How very reassuring."

Greg leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Alex's temple. "We'll figure it out," he says, trying to project more confidence than he feels. "One day at a time."

Alex turns, catching Greg's mouth with his own in a kiss that feels like both a question and an answer. When they part, there's a new determination in Alex's eyes.

"Alright," he says simply. "One day at a time."

Greg nods, a cautious hope building in his chest. Tomorrow they'll return to London, to the complexities of their intertwined professional and personal lives. There will be challenges, misunderstandings, moments of doubt. But right now, in this sun-drenched bedroom with the taste of Alex still on his lips, Greg allows himself to believe that whatever comes next might just be worth all the complications.

"Now," he says, reaching for his coffee again, "I believe you mentioned something about breakfast?"

Alex's expression brightens, clearly relieved to be back on more practical ground. "Yes. I was thinking eggs and toast, if that works for you."

"Sounds perfect," Greg assures him, watching as Alex stands, straightening his towel with that precise movement that's so characteristic of him. "Need a hand?"

"You can make the toast," Alex offers magnanimously. "I don't trust anyone else with my eggs."

Greg laughs, rising from the bed. "I'm honored by your trust in my toast-making abilities."

As they move toward the kitchen together, Greg feels a strange mix of emotions—uncertainty about the future, yes, but also a quiet contentment he hasn't experienced in longer than he cares to remember. Whatever happens when they return to London tomorrow, he has this moment, this morning, this man who somehow manages to be both exactly who Greg always thought he was and someone entirely unexpected. 

For now, that feels like enough.

Alex moves to the kitchen, Greg following close behind. The cottage feels different in the morning light—more real somehow, as if the night's revelations have shifted something fundamental in the space around them.

Greg watches as Alex efficiently gathers ingredients, his movements precise even in this domestic setting. There's something fascinating about seeing this side of him—Alex in a towel, making breakfast, his hair still damp from their shared shower. It's intimate in a way that goes beyond the physical connection they've just shared.

"You can put some music on if you'd like," Alex says, nodding toward a small speaker on the counter. "The code's 1234."

Greg raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? That's your password? Mr. Security-Conscious has 1234 as his code?"

A faint flush colors Alex's cheeks. "It's just for the speaker," he defends. "My actual passwords are considerably more complex."

"I should hope so," Greg teases, connecting his phone to the speaker. He scrolls through his playlists, trying to find something appropriate for a morning-after breakfast. Everything feels either too romantic or not romantic enough. He finally settles on a jazz playlist—neutral enough not to make any grand statements, but pleasant background for cooking.

As soft saxophone fills the kitchen, Greg turns his attention to the bread, slotting four slices into the toaster. Alex works beside him, cracking eggs into a bowl with practiced precision. Their movements around each other are surprisingly fluid, as if they've done this dance before.

"Butter's in the fridge," Alex says without looking up from his whisking. "Top shelf on the door."

Greg retrieves it, their arms brushing as he moves past Alex to place it on the counter. The casual contact sends a small shiver down his spine—how quickly the ordinary has become charged with new meaning.

"I meant to ask before but we got distracted by…,. Did you sleep well?" Alex asks, his tone deliberately casual as he pours the eggs into a heated pan.

Greg snorts. "What little sleep I got, yes." He leans against the counter, watching Alex's profile as he concentrates on the eggs. "You?"

"Very well," Alex says, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Despite the interruptions."

The toast pops up, giving Greg something to focus on besides the memory of those interruptions. He butters each slice methodically, aware of Alex's presence just inches away.

"I was thinking," Alex says after a moment, "about today."

Greg glances at him, trying to read his expression. "What about it?"

"It's our last day here," Alex points out, stirring the eggs with careful attention. "We should probably make the most of it."

"Did you have something specific in mind?" Greg asks, placing the buttered toast on two plates.

Alex shrugs, the movement deliberately casual. "Nothing elaborate. I thought perhaps we could walk down to that pub by the river for lunch. The weather forecast is good."

The suggestion is so normal, so mundane, that it takes Greg a moment to recognize what Alex is actually proposing—their first public outing together since everything changed between them. Not in London, granted, but still a step beyond the privacy of the cottage.

"That sounds nice," Greg says, surprised by how much he means it. "I could use some fresh air."

Alex nods, dividing the scrambled eggs between their plates. "And later, perhaps..."

He trails off, but the implication hangs in the air between them. Greg feels warmth spread through his chest that has nothing to do with the steam rising from the eggs.

"Later sounds promising too," he agrees, his voice rougher than he intended.

They settle at the small kitchen table, knees bumping underneath. The domesticity of it all strikes Greg again—how easily they've fallen into this routine, as if they've been having breakfast together for years rather than hours.

"What are you thinking about?" Alex asks, noticing Greg's expression. "You've gone quiet."

Greg takes a bite of toast, buying himself a moment. "Just... this," he admits finally, gesturing between them. "How normal it feels."

Alex considers this, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Does that surprise you?"

"A bit, yeah," Greg confesses. "I thought it would be more awkward. Morning after and all that."

"It's still early," Alex points out dryly. "Plenty of time for awkwardness to set in."

Greg laughs, the tension in his chest easing slightly. "Always the optimist."

Alex smiles, a genuine smile that transforms his face in a way that makes Greg's breath catch. "I prefer 'realist,'" he corrects. "But in this case, I actually meant it as a joke."

"Your delivery needs work," Greg teases, nudging Alex's foot under the table. "But I'll give you points for trying."

They eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the jazz playing softly in the background. Greg finds himself studying Alex's face, noticing details he's seen a hundred times before but never quite like this—the precise way he cuts his toast into quarters before eating it, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates on his food, the way his eyes occasionally flick up to meet Greg's, as if checking that he's still there.

"You're staring," Alex observes without looking up.

"Am I?" Greg doesn't bother denying it. "Sorry."

"I didn't say I minded," Alex replies, his voice carefully neutral. "Just making an observation."

Greg takes a sip of coffee, considering his next words. "It's strange," he says finally. "I've known you for years, but I feel like I'm seeing you differently now."

Alex looks up at this, his expression curious. "Different how?"

"I'm not sure I can explain it," Greg admits. "It's like... I knew all the pieces before, but they've rearranged themselves into something new."

Alex sets down his fork, his full attention on Greg now. "That's rather poetic for this early in the morning."

"Must be the country air," Greg deflects, suddenly self-conscious. "Or possibly the mind-blowing sex. Known to inspire eloquence in even the most tongue-tied individuals."

This draws a laugh from Alex, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Is that scientifically proven?"

"Absolutely," Greg assures him with mock seriousness. "Extensive studies have been conducted. Very rigorous methodology."

"I see," Alex says, playing along. "And the results were conclusive?"

"Overwhelmingly so," Greg confirms. "Though further research is always recommended. For validation purposes."

Alex's eyes darken slightly at this, the shift so subtle Greg might have missed it if he weren't paying such close attention. "I'm a firm believer in thorough research," he says, his tone light but with an undercurrent that sends heat pooling in Greg's belly.

"Are you now?" Greg asks, holding Alex's gaze across the table.

"Oh yes," Alex says seriously. "One must be methodical about these things. Multiple trials, consistent conditions, careful documentation of results."

Greg swallows, the breakfast suddenly forgotten. "That sounds... comprehensive."

"I believe in being thorough," Alex says simply, and takes another bite of toast as if he hasn't just turned the temperature in the room up several degrees.

Greg watches him chew, transfixed by the ordinary motion of his jaw, the slight bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. How is it possible that even this—Alex eating toast, for Christ's sake—has become somehow erotic?

"You're staring again," Alex points out, but this time there's a hint of smugness in his tone, as if he knows exactly what effect he's having.

"You're doing it on purpose," Greg accuses, though there's no heat in it. "Trying to distract me."

"Is it working?" Alex asks innocently.

Greg gestures to his half-eaten breakfast. "What do you think?"

A small, satisfied smile plays at the corner of Alex's mouth. "I think," he says deliberately, "that your toast is getting cold."

"Bastard," Greg mutters, but he can't help the fondness that creeps into his voice. He picks up his toast, taking an exaggerated bite. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Alex deadpans, but the warmth in his eyes belies his dry tone.

They finish breakfast in a comfortable silence, the tension between them simmering just below the surface. Greg finds himself hyperaware of every movement Alex makes—the precise way he dabs his mouth with a napkin, the careful placement of his fork on his empty plate, the deliberate motion as he pushes his chair back from the table.

"I should get dressed," Alex says, standing. "If we're going to make it to the pub for lunch, I mean."

Greg nods, not trusting himself to speak. The towel around Alex's waist has slipped slightly, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of hip bone. He forces his gaze upward, meeting Alex's eyes.

"Unless," Alex continues, his voice dropping slightly, "you had other ideas for the morning?"

The invitation is clear, hovering in the air between them like a tangible thing. Greg feels his body responding, his pulse quickening despite the fact that they've barely finished breakfast.

"I thought you wanted to go to the pub," he says, his voice rougher than he intended.

Alex shrugs, the movement deliberately casual. "It's early yet. Plenty of time for... other activities... before lunch."

Greg stands, closing the distance between them in two long strides. "Other activities," he repeats, his hands finding Alex's waist. "You have a real gift for understatement, you know that?"

"So I've been told," Alex murmurs, his eyes darkening as Greg's fingers trace the edge of the towel. "It's part of my charm."

"Is that what we're calling it?" Greg asks, his thumb brushing over the jutting hip bone that had caught his attention moments ago.

Alex's breath hitches, his composure slipping just enough to be gratifying. "Among other things."

Greg leans down, his lips brushing against Alex's ear. "I think," he says quietly, "that getting dressed would be counterproductive to these 'other activities' you mentioned."

"An excellent point," Alex concedes, his hands coming up to rest on Greg's chest. "Perhaps we should dispense with clothing altogether for the time being."

"Now who's being poetic?" Greg teases, his fingers tugging at the knot holding Alex's towel in place.

"Merely practical," Alex corrects, but his voice lacks its usual steadiness. "Efficiency is—"

Greg silences him with a kiss, swallowing whatever logical argument Alex was about to make. The towel falls to the kitchen floor, forgotten as Alex presses against him, warm skin contrasting with the cool cotton of Greg's borrowed t-shirt.

"Bedroom?" Greg suggests when they break apart, both slightly breathless.

Alex shakes his head, surprising him. "Here," he says, his voice low and certain. "I want you here."

The simple declaration sends heat rushing through Greg's body. "In the kitchen?"

"On the table, specifically," Alex clarifies, and there's something almost challenging in his expression. "Unless you object?"

Greg glances at the wooden table, sturdy enough for their breakfast but not designed for what Alex is suggesting. "It might not hold," he points out, though his body is already thoroughly on board with the idea.

"It will," Alex says with such confidence that Greg doesn't bother to question how he knows. "Trust me."

Those two words—trust me—resonate something in Greg that he hadn't expected. He stares at Alex for a moment, taking in the certainty in his eyes, the slight flush spreading across his chest, the quiet confidence in his stance despite his nakedness.

"Alright," Greg says, his voice rough. "I trust you."

The words feel significant somehow, weighted with meaning beyond their immediate context. Alex's expression softens for a moment, something vulnerable flickering across his features before it's replaced by a more heated look.

"Good," he says simply, and reaches for the hem of Greg's t-shirt. "This needs to go."

Greg raises his arms obediently, allowing Alex to pull the shirt over his head. The air feels cool against his skin, raising goosebumps that have as much to do with anticipation as temperature. Alex's hands move to the waistband of his borrowed pajama bottoms next, tugging them down with deliberate slowness.

"You're teasing," Greg observes, his breath catching as Alex's knuckles brush against his growing hardness.

"I prefer to think of it as savoring," Alex corrects, his gaze traveling appreciatively over Greg's body as the pajamas pool around his ankles. "Step out."

Greg complies, kicking the pants aside. They stand facing each other in the morning light streaming through the kitchen window, both naked now, the remnants of their breakfast still on the table beside them. The domesticity of it all—coffee mugs and toast crumbs juxtaposed with their aroused bodies—strikes Greg as absurdly erotic.

"Now what?" he asks, genuinely curious about what Alex has in mind.

Alex considers him for a moment, his head tilted slightly to one side in that way he has when he's formulating a plan. "Turn around," he says finally. "Hands on the table."

The quiet command sends a jolt of heat through Greg's body. He turns, placing his palms flat on the wooden surface, acutely aware of Alex's gaze on his back, his arse, his thighs. He hears movement behind him, the soft pad of bare feet on tile, then the sound of a drawer opening.

"What are you—" he begins, glancing over his shoulder.

"Eyes forward," Alex interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. "I told you to trust me."

Greg turns his head back, fixing his gaze on the far wall. His heart is pounding, a mix of anticipation and a strange vulnerability at being so exposed, so compliant. He's never been particularly submissive in bed before, but there's something about Alex's quiet authority that makes him want to yield.

He hears Alex return, feels the warmth of his body close behind him though they're not quite touching. Something cool and slick touches the small of his back, making him flinch in surprise.

"Olive oil," Alex explains, his voice low near Greg's ear. "Not ideal, but it will serve our purpose."

"Resourceful," Greg manages, his voice unsteady as Alex's slicked fingers trail lower, tracing the cleft of his arse. "Though I might never look at salad dressing the same way again."

Alex's soft laugh warms the back of his neck. "I'll buy you more proper lubricant when we get back to London," he promises. "Something expensive. Scented, perhaps."

The casual reference to their future—to what happens after this cottage, after today—makes something warm unfurl in Greg's chest. Before he can respond, Alex's fingers find their destination, circling and pressing with careful precision. The sensation draws a gasp from Greg's throat, his head dropping forward between his shoulders.

"Alright?" Alex asks, his free hand coming to rest on Greg's hip, steadying.

"Yeah," Greg breathes, pushing back slightly against the pressure. "More than alright."

Alex takes his time, working Greg open with a patience that borders on maddening. One finger becomes two, stretching and preparing with methodical care until Greg is practically vibrating with need, his cock heavy and aching between his legs.

"Alex," he groans, the name half-plea, half-demand. "I'm ready. Please."

"Almost," Alex murmurs, his fingers curling to brush against that perfect spot inside that makes Greg's knees buckle slightly. "I want to make sure you're still properly prepared."

"I'm prepared," Greg insists, his voice rough with desperation. "I'm so fucking prepared I might actually die if you don't get on with it."

This draws another soft laugh from Alex, but his fingers withdraw, leaving Greg feeling empty and desperate. "So impatient," Alex chides, though his own voice is strained with restraint. "Turn around."

Greg complies, turning to find Alex looking at him with an expression of such naked want that it takes his breath away. For all his control, all his careful preparation, Alex's pupils are blown wide, his chest flushed, his cock standing proud against his stomach.

"Up," Alex says, nodding toward the table. "Sit on the edge."

Greg hoists himself onto the table, the wood cool against his heated skin. Alex steps between his spread thighs, his hands coming to rest on Greg's knees.

"I want to see your face this time," Alex explains, his thumbs tracing small circles against Greg's skin. "Is that alright?"

The question—so considerate, so Alex—makes something squeeze in Greg's chest. "More than alright," he says, reaching out to cup Alex's face in his palm. "I want to see you too."

Alex turns his head, pressing a kiss to Greg's palm that feels unexpectedly tender amidst the heat of the moment. Then he's reaching for the olive oil again, slicking himself with efficient strokes that make Greg's mouth go dry with wanting.

"Ready?" Alex asks, positioning himself at Greg's entrance, his eyes locked on Greg's face.

Greg nods, beyond words now. He wraps his legs around Alex's waist, drawing him closer until he can feel the blunt pressure against his hole. Alex pushes forward slowly, the stretch burning despite his careful preparation, but Greg welcomes the sensation, his body opening to accept Alex into its deepest places.

When Alex is fully seated, they pause, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air in the quiet kitchen. The intimacy of the moment—connected in the most primal way possible, surrounded by the mundane trappings of breakfast—feels profound in a way Greg hadn't anticipated.

"Move," he whispers finally, his hands finding purchase on Alex's shoulders. "Please, Alex."

Alex complies, drawing back slowly before pushing forward again, establishing a rhythm that's deliberate and deep. Greg matches him, rolling his hips to meet each thrust, his body responding with an eagerness that surprises even himself. The angle is perfect, allowing Alex to hit that spot inside him with each stroke, sending sparks of pleasure up his spine.

"Greg," Alex breathes, his composure fracturing as the pace increases. "You feel—God, you're incredible."

The praise washes over Greg like a physical caress, drawing a moan from deep in his chest. He's never been like this with a partner before—so open, so receptive, so utterly present in his body and the sensations coursing through it. Alex brings out something in him that he didn't know existed, a vulnerability that feels like strength rather than weakness.

The table creaks beneath them, the sound mingling with their harsh breathing and the slick sounds of their bodies moving together. Greg's world narrows to these sensations—Alex inside him, Alex's hands gripping his thighs, Alex's face above him, flushed and focused and more beautiful than Greg has ever seen him.

"Touch yourself," Alex urges, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "I want to watch you come."

Greg obeys, wrapping a hand around his neglected cock. The dual sensation—Alex inside him, his own hand working in rhythm with Alex's thrusts—brings him rapidly to the edge. His other hand grips Alex's shoulder, needing the anchor as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable intensity.

"I'm close," he warns, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears. "Alex, I'm—"

"Yes," Alex encourages, his hips driving deeper, harder. "Let go, Greg. I've got you."

Those words—I've got you—push Greg over the edge. He comes with a shout, his body clenching around Alex's cock as pleasure crashes through him in waves. Through the haze of his own climax, he watches Alex's face transform, control finally slipping as his own release overtakes him.

"Greg," Alex gasps, his hips stuttering as he spills inside Greg's body. "Oh god, Greg."

They cling to each other as the aftershocks subside, both trembling slightly from the intensity of their shared release. Greg's head falls forward to rest on Alex's shoulder, his breath coming in ragged pants against sweat-slicked skin. Alex's arms wrap around him, holding him close as if afraid he might somehow slip away.

For a long moment, neither speaks, the only sound in the kitchen their gradually slowing breaths and the soft jazz still playing from the forgotten speaker. Greg becomes aware of the uncomfortable aspects of their position—the hard edge of the table digging into his thighs, the stickiness between their bodies, the slight chill in the air against cooling skin—but he can't bring himself to move just yet.

"Well," Alex says finally, his voice rough but with a hint of his usual dry humor, "I think we've thoroughly defiled the breakfast table."

Greg laughs, the sound slightly shaky but genuine. "I'd say so, yes." He lifts his head to meet Alex's eyes. "Though I notice it held up just fine."

"I told you to trust me," Alex reminds him, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I wouldn't suggest something structurally unsound."

"Of course not," Greg agrees solemnly. "You're nothing if not thorough in your risk assessments."

Alex carefully withdraws, both of them wincing slightly at the sensation. "We should clean up," he says, glancing around the kitchen with a slightly bemused expression, as if just realizing what they've done.

Greg slides off the table, his legs wobbling slightly as they take his weight again. "Round two of the shower?"

"Practical," Alex approves, but he makes no move toward the bathroom, his eyes still on Greg's face with an expression that's difficult to read. "Greg, I—"

He stops, seeming to struggle with whatever he was about to say. Greg waits, sensing the importance of the moment.

"I meant what I said before," Alex continues finally. "About wanting to figure this out when we get back to London. About seeing where it goes."

The simple confirmation loosens a knot in Greg's chest that he hadn't fully acknowledged was there. "Good," he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Alex's forehead. "Because I meant it too."

Alex catches his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm in a gesture that's becoming familiar yet still sends warmth spreading through Greg's body. "Shower," he says decisively. "Then perhaps a walk before lunch. I find I'm in need of some fresh air."

Greg smiles, following as Alex leads him toward the bathroom. "Lead the way," he says, and means it in ways that go beyond the immediate moment.

Whatever happens when they return to London tomorrow, Greg thinks, they'll figure it out together. One step at a time, one day at a time. Starting with a shared shower, a country walk, a pub lunch by the river.

It feels like a beginning.

****

Two months later, Greg still finds himself smiling at random moments throughout the day. He'll be in the middle of a meeting, or queuing for coffee, or reading through a script, and suddenly the reality of his situation will hit him: he's with Alex. Properly with him. It still feels surreal.

They've settled into a rhythm that works surprisingly well. Weeknights at each other's flats, weekends together when schedules allow. They've been careful—professional at work, discreet in public—though Greg has caught himself staring at Alex during meetings, earning a subtle head shake from Alex that somehow manages to be both reproachful and fond.

Tonight they've had dinner at a small Italian place in Islington where the owner knows Greg well enough to give them a secluded table in the back. Over pasta and wine, they've talked about everything and nothing—a new project Alex is developing, Greg's upcoming tour dates, a documentary they both watched. Normal couple things that still feel extraordinary simply because they're doing them together.

Now, back at Greg's flat, Alex seems oddly nervous. He's been fidgeting since they arrived, straightening things that don't need straightening, checking his phone, clearing his throat without speaking.

"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or should I start guessing?" Greg asks finally, settling onto the sofa with two glasses of whisky.

Alex accepts his glass but remains standing, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. "I have something for you," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. "Something important."

Greg raises an eyebrow, setting his whisky aside. "Should I be worried?"

"No," Alex says quickly. "At least, I hope not." He takes a deep breath, then sits beside Greg on the sofa, turning to face him. "The past two months have been... well, they've been rather extraordinary, haven't they?"

"They have," Greg agrees, watching Alex's face carefully. "Though you're making me nervous now."

Alex smiles apologetically and pulls a small object from his pocket—a key on a simple key-ring. He holds it out to Greg, who takes it automatically.

"I already have a key to your flat," Greg says, turning it over in his palm. "And you have one to mine. Or have you changed the locks to keep me out?" He grins, trying to lighten whatever tension is making Alex so jittery.

"No," Alex says, his smile softening. "It's not to my flat. It's to the cottage."

Greg stares at him, not comprehending at first. "The cottage? Your friend's place...?"

"Yes," Alex nods. "Except it's not his anymore. It's mine. I bought it from him."

Greg blinks, looking from the key to Alex's face. "You bought the cottage?"

"I did," Alex confirms, his eyes never leaving Greg's. "It's a bit impulsive, I know, which isn't exactly my usual approach. But when Mark mentioned he was thinking of selling, I just... I couldn't stop thinking about our time there. What it meant. How it felt to be somewhere that was just... ours. I didn’t want to lose that."

The significance of what Alex is saying slowly dawns on Greg. This isn't just about a property purchase—it's about creating a space for them, away from London, away from the careful boundaries they've maintained.

"So this key..." Greg holds it up between them.

"Is yours," Alex finishes. "If you want it. I thought perhaps we could go there on weekends, or whenever we both have time. Somewhere we don't have to be quite so careful."

Greg feels a warmth spreading through his chest that has nothing to do with the whisky. "Alex Horne," he says, his voice rougher than he intended, "did you buy us a love nest?"

Alex's cheeks flush slightly, but he doesn't look away. "I suppose I did, yes. Though I'd prefer to call it a country retreat. Sounds less tawdry."

Greg laughs, the sound filling the room. "Of course you would." He looks down at the key again, running his thumb over its teeth. "This is... it's a big gesture, Alex."

"I know," Alex acknowledges, his expression growing more serious. "Perhaps too big? If it feels like too much pressure, or if you're not—"

Greg cuts him off by leaning forward and kissing him, one hand cupping the back of Alex's neck to draw him closer. When they part, Greg keeps his hand where it is, his thumb tracing the line of Alex's jaw.

"It's not too much," he says quietly. "It's perfect. Thank you."

The tension visibly drains from Alex's shoulders. "You're sure? Because the property market is quite robust at the moment, and I could easily—"

"Alex," Greg interrupts, amused and touched by Alex's immediate pivot to practical contingencies. "I love it. I love that you did this. And I can't wait to go back there with you."

Alex's smile is small but genuine, a private expression that Greg has come to treasure. "Good," he says simply. "That's... good."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the key warm in Greg's palm. Then a thought occurs to him. "When did you even have time to arrange all this? We've barely been apart these past two months."

"I'm very efficient," Alex reminds him with a hint of smugness. "And I may have made a few calls while you were in the shower."

Greg laughs, shaking his head. "Of course you did. So when do I get to visit our new 'country retreat'?"

"I was thinking this weekend," Alex suggests, his tone casual but his eyes watchful. "If you're free."

"I am," Greg confirms, pocketing the key with a sense of ceremony that feels appropriate to the moment. "Should I pack anything special for the occasion?"

Alex's eyes darken slightly, his expression shifting into something that still gives Greg a thrill after two months together. "Just yourself," he says, his voice dropping to that lower register that never fails to send heat down Greg's spine. "Though I wouldn't object to that blue shirt you wore to dinner last week."

"Noted," Greg says, grinning. "Any other requests while you're making demands?"

Alex pretends to consider this, his head tilting in that way Greg finds unreasonably endearing. "Just one," he says finally, setting his untouched whisky aside. "That we move this conversation to the bedroom."

Greg stands, pulling Alex up with him. "That," he says, leading Alex toward the hallway, "is a request I'm very happy to accommodate."

As they move through the flat together, Greg finds himself thinking about the key in his pocket—not just a piece of metal, but a promise of something more permanent than he'd dared to hope for. A place that's theirs, away from London, away from the careful boundaries they've maintained.

As they enter the bedroom, the weight of Alex's key still warm in Greg's pocket, something shifts in the air between them. There's an electricity, a tension that's been building all evening. Greg turns, catching Alex's face between his hands, and kisses him with an intensity that surprises them both.

"I've been wanting to do that since you handed me that key," Greg murmurs against Alex's lips.

Alex's breathing quickens, his pupils dilating in the dim light. "I should give you keys more often."

Greg backs him toward the bed, fingers working at the buttons of Alex's shirt with uncharacteristic patience. "This feels different," he says, revealing each inch of skin with deliberate care. "Tonight, I mean."

"It is different," Alex agrees, his voice catching as Greg's fingers brush against his collarbone. 

When Greg finally pushes the shirt from Alex's shoulders, he takes a moment to simply look at him—the lean lines of his torso, the unexpected strength in his arms, the flush spreading across his chest. Even after two months, the sight of Alex like this still feels like a revelation.

"You're staring," Alex points out, a hint of self-consciousness creeping into his voice.

"Can you blame me?" Greg asks, running his palms down Alex's sides. "You're bloody gorgeous."

Alex rolls his eyes, but the pleased smile tugging at his lips betrays him. "Now who's being dramatic?"

"Not dramatic," Greg corrects, pressing Alex back onto the mattress. "Accurate."

He follows Alex down, covering his body with his own, relishing the warmth of skin against skin as Alex tugs impatiently at Greg's shirt. When they're both finally undressed, Greg pauses, propped above Alex on his forearms.

"What do you want tonight?" he asks, his voice low.

Alex's eyes darken, his hands moving restlessly along Greg's back. "You," he says simply. "Inside me."

The words send heat pooling in Greg's belly, his cock hardening further against Alex's thigh. "Are you sure? We haven't done it that way since—"

"I'm sure," Alex interrupts, his voice steady despite the flush on his cheeks. "I've been thinking about it all day."

Greg groans, dropping his forehead to Alex's shoulder. "Christ, Alex. You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?" Alex asks, a hint of mischief in his tone as his hands slide lower, cupping Greg's arse. "It's true."

Greg lifts his head, studying Alex's face. "All day?"

"All day," Alex confirms, his expression serious despite the heat in his eyes. "Since I picked up the keys this morning, actually. I kept thinking about being there with you, about what we might do in our bed in our cottage."

The possessive pronouns—our bed, our cottage—send a jolt of something deeper than desire through Greg's chest. He kisses Alex again, harder this time, pouring everything he can't yet say into the press of his lips.

When they break apart, Alex is breathing heavily, his hands still moving restlessly over Greg's skin. "Drawer," he reminds Greg, nodding toward the nightstand.

Greg reaches over, fumbling for the lube and a condom. As he tears open the packet, Alex stops him with a gentle hand on his wrist.

"We don't need that," he says quietly. "If you don't want to."

Greg stills, searching Alex's face. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Alex nods. "We're both clean, and I..." He hesitates, a vulnerability in his expression that makes Greg's heart clench. "I want to feel you. Just you."

The echo of Greg's own words from their first time together isn't lost on him. He sets the condom aside, something tight and warm unfurling in his chest. "Okay," he agrees, his voice rough. "Just me."

The preparation is slow, deliberate, Greg watching Alex's face carefully as he works him open with slicked fingers. By the time he's three fingers deep, Alex is pushing back against his hand, his composure thoroughly undone.

"Greg," he gasps, his head thrown back against the pillows. "Please."

Greg withdraws his fingers, using the remaining lube to slick himself. The first press inside is almost overwhelming—the heat, the tightness, the knowledge that there's nothing between them. He moves slowly, giving Alex time to adjust, watching for any sign of discomfort.

"Okay?" he asks when he's fully seated, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

Alex nods, his eyes closed, lips parted. "More than okay."

Greg begins to move, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady. The sensation is incredible—not just the physical pleasure, but the emotional weight of what they're doing. This isn't just sex anymore; it hasn't been for weeks. This is something else entirely.

"Look at me," Greg urges, his pace faltering slightly as emotion threatens to overwhelm him.

Alex's eyes open, dark and wanting, fixed on Greg's face. The naked vulnerability there—the trust, the need—pushes Greg closer to the edge than he expected.

"I love you," he says suddenly, the words spilling out before he can stop them. "Fuck, Alex, I love you."

Alex's breath catches, his body tightening around Greg in a way that makes them both gasp. For a moment, Greg thinks he's made a terrible mistake—that it's too soon, that Alex isn't ready to hear it. But then Alex's hands are on his face, pulling him down for a kiss that's almost desperate in its intensity.

"I love you too," Alex whispers against his lips. "God, Greg, I love you so much."

The confession breaks something open between them. Greg's movements become more urgent, deeper, and Alex meets him thrust for thrust, their bodies finding a rhythm that feels both new and familiar. The room fills with the sounds of their breathing, the rustle of sheets, the occasional broken word or gasp.

"I've wanted to say it for weeks," Greg admits, his voice ragged as he drives deeper into Alex's body. "Months, no, years, if I'm being honest with myself."

"Years?" Alex echoes, his voice catching as Greg hits that perfect spot inside him.

"Since that first day you walked onto the set," Greg confirms, the admission easier now that the words are out. "Thought you were the most fascinating man I'd ever met."

Alex laughs, the sound breaking into a moan as Greg's angle changes slightly. "I thought you were terrifying," he confesses. "Brilliant and terrifying and completely captivating."

The honesty between them now feels as intimate as their joined bodies. Greg can feel himself getting close, the tension building at the base of his spine, but he's determined to bring Alex there first. He shifts his weight to one arm, the other hand moving between them to wrap around Alex's cock.

"Christ," Alex gasps, his back arching off the bed. "Greg, I'm close."

"I know," Greg murmurs, his hand working in rhythm with his thrusts. "Let go, love. I've got you."

Alex comes with a broken sound that might be Greg's name, his body clenching around Greg's cock as he spills over Greg's fist and his own stomach. The sight of him like this—completely undone, completely vulnerable—pushes Greg over the edge as well. He comes with a shout, buried deep inside Alex, the pleasure almost unbearably intense.

For a long moment, they stay like that, bodies joined, breath mingling in the small space between them. Then Greg carefully withdraws, collapsing beside Alex on the rumpled sheets. The silence between them is comfortable, heavy with the weight of what they've just shared.

"Did you mean it?" Alex asks finally, his voice quiet in the dim room. "What you said."

Greg turns his head to look at Alex's profile, the familiar lines of his face softened in the aftermath of pleasure. "Every word," he confirms. "I love you, Alex Horne. Have done for longer than I care to admit, even to myself."

Alex's expression relaxes into something close to wonder. "I love you too," he says, the words sounding more certain now. "It's terrifying, actually, how much I do."

Greg laughs softly, reaching over to take Alex's hand. "Terrifying sounds about right."

They lie there in comfortable silence for a while, fingers intertwined, breathing slowly returning to normal. Greg feels a strange sense of peace settling over him—as if something that had been out of alignment for years has finally clicked into place.

"You know," Alex says eventually, his thumb tracing patterns on Greg's palm, "when I bought the cottage, I was thinking about more than just weekends away."

Greg turns onto his side, studying Alex's face in the dim light. "Oh?"

Alex nods, a hint of his earlier nervousness returning. "I was thinking about the future. Our future, specifically."

"What about it?" Greg prompts gently, sensing there's more Alex wants to say.

Alex takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something. "I know it's only been two months," he says carefully. "Two months of actually being together, I mean. But it feels like much longer, doesn't it? All those years working together, becoming friends, becoming... whatever we were before the cottage."

"It does," Greg agrees, his heart beginning to beat faster. "Feels like we've been circling each other for ages."

"Exactly," Alex nods, looking relieved that Greg understands. "And now that we've finally sorted ourselves out, I don't want to waste any more time."

Greg's breath catches in his throat as Alex's meaning becomes clear. "Alex," he says carefully, "are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Probably," Alex admits with a small smile. "Though I'm making a mess of it, as usual."

"You're doing fine," Greg assures him, squeezing his hand. "Keep going."

Alex shifts onto his side as well, facing Greg properly. "I'm not proposing," he clarifies. "Not exactly. Not yet. But I wanted you to know that's where my head is. That when I bought the cottage, I was thinking about a place where we could build something permanent. Together."

The simple honesty of it—so typically Alex in its practical approach to even the most emotional of subjects—makes something warm unfurl in Greg's chest. "I like the sound of that," he says, his voice rougher than he intended. "Building something permanent."

"You do?" Alex asks, and there's a vulnerability in his expression that makes Greg want to pull him close and never let go.

"I do. Christ, of course I do," Greg confirms. "Though I should warn you, I'm rubbish at DIY. If you're expecting me to help with actual building, we're in trouble."

This draws a genuine laugh from Alex, the sound warming the space between them. "Noted," he says dryly. "Though I was speaking more metaphorically."

"I know," Greg assures him, reaching up to trace the line of Alex's jaw with his fingertips. "And I'm all in, my love. Have been since our time at the cottage. Before that, if I'm being honest."

Alex's expression softens, his usual careful composure giving way to something more vulnerable, more open. "So we're agreed?" he asks. "We're building toward something... permanent?"

"We are," Greg confirms, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Alex's lips. "Though I think I'd like a proper proposal eventually. Something I can tell our friends," Greg says with a wry smile. "Something even more memorable than a cottage key and a post-coital declaration."

Alex laughs, the sound vibrating through the small space between them. "I'll keep that in mind. Though I think the cottage key was rather romantic, personally."

"It was," Greg assures him, pulling Alex closer. "Perfect, actually. Just like you."

"Hardly perfect," Alex murmurs against Greg's chest.

"Perfect for me, then," Greg amends, pressing a kiss to the top of Alex's head. "My perfectly imperfect, Little Alex Horne."

They lie together in comfortable silence, the weight of their confessions settling around them like a blanket. Greg finds himself thinking about the cottage—their cottage—and all the possibilities it represents. Weekends away from London, holidays, perhaps eventually...more. A future that once seemed impossible now stretches before them, full of promise.

"We should get some sleep," Alex says eventually, his voice already heavy with drowsiness. "Early meeting tomorrow."

"Mmm," Greg agrees, though he's reluctant to close his eyes, to end this perfect moment. "Love you," he murmurs, the words still new enough to send a thrill through him.

"Love you too," Alex replies, the simplicity of the response somehow making it more powerful.

As they drift toward sleep, bodies entwined in the darkness, Greg finds himself thinking that for all his years of searching, of wondering if he'd ever find the right person, the answer had been right in front of him all along. In the form of a tall, precise man with careful hands and a mind that never stops planning—a man who bought them a cottage because he was thinking about forever.

Greg tightens his arm around Alex's sleeping form, a sense of peace settling over him that he's never quite experienced before. Tomorrow they'll return to their careful public personas, to the boundaries they maintain for the sake of their careers. But here, in this bed, in this moment, there are no boundaries left between them.

And in a cottage in the countryside, surrounded by the sound of the sea, there's a key waiting for both of them—a key to a future Greg can finally allow himself to imagine.

The end.