Days Pass

The next few days feel the same, but not the same.

Tom’s still Tom, still kisses you goodbye in the morning, still makes you tea without asking, still asks how your day’s been. But there’s something different in the way his eyes hold yours now. Longer. More searching.

On Wednesday evening, you’re in the kitchen chopping veg when you feel him watching you from the doorway. Not in a flirty way — not exactly. It’s closer to… weighing you up. Like he’s wondering if he knows you as well as he thought.

He comes over, stands close enough that you feel the warmth off him, but his hand doesn’t reach for your waist like it usually would. Instead, he rests it flat on the counter beside yours.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says.

You glance at him. “No, I haven’t.”

“You have,” he says gently. “And I can’t work out if it’s because of me… or because of what’s in your head.”

You set the knife down, wiping your hands on a tea towel. “It’s nothing. I promise.”

He studies your face for a long moment, then nods. “Alright.” But you can tell he doesn’t fully believe it.

That night in bed, he kisses you like he means it, slow, deliberate, but when your hand moves down to him, he hesitates. You feel him hard against your palm, but his breathing is off, like his mind is somewhere else.

Over the next couple of days, you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not watching, when you’re folding laundry, or putting your hair up, or talking to someone in the supermarket queue. There’s an edge in his gaze now, like he’s already imagining scenarios he can’t unsee.

And you realise… that tiny confession over breakfast didn’t just put an idea in his head. It’s put a shadow there too.