Emily and Tom

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

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

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

"Do you want a hand with those?"

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

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

Emily laughed softly. "You calling yourself muscle?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours?"

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

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

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

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

"Worth it."

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

"You want a coffee?"

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

"Not like up here then?"

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

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

~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grinned. "Highly technical term."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I like this one," he said.

Emily glanced over. "Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What kind of feel?"

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

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

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

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

He looked a little bashful, pleased.

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

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

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

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

The room felt too warm.

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

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

She thought, with no ceremony: He wants me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emily nodded. "Just thinking."

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

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

"I just like being around you."

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

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

But she didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

"Which one?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gave a small laugh. "Minimalist chaos."

She smirked into her tea. "Exactly."

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

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

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

"And was it?"

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

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

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

Emily said nothing for a moment. Just nodded.

"So the shop?"

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

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

He gave her a small smile, almost embarrassed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence stretched again, but not uncomfortably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~