coming home to Tom

When you finally get home, the apartment is dark except for the warm glow of the lamp by the couch. Tom’s waiting, legs tucked under him, laptop balanced on his knees. He looks up as you close the door.

“Well,” he says, smirking, “did Professor Pynchon give you a pop quiz?”

You roll your eyes, setting your purse down. “Something like that. Turns out dessert was an oral exam.”

Tom laughs — a real one, surprised and bright. “You didn’t.”

You lift a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “For research.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, standing to meet you halfway across the room. “And what exactly were you researching? Lip chemistry?”

You grin despite yourself, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “Maybe I was testing how sincerity tastes. For the article.”

Tom folds his arms, trying and failing to look stern. “You’re going to end up writing a Pulitzer-winning romance novel instead of an exposé.”

“Would you still edit it for me?” you ask, stepping closer.

He gives a mock sigh. “Only if I get acknowledgment in the back for moral support and crisis management.”

You bump his shoulder playfully. “Deal.”

For a beat, you stand there together, close enough to feel each other’s warmth. Then Tom reaches out, tugs gently at a curl of your red hair. “So,” he says softly, “was it a good kiss?”

You hesitate — then smile, sheepish and teasing. “Let’s just say... I might need a second opinion.”

He laughs, shaking his head, and pulls you into a quick, affectionate kiss — one that feels familiar, grounding, and completely, wonderfully yours.

Tom flops onto the couch dramatically. “So, let me get this straight — first Rob, then Jordan, now Eli? At this rate, I’m going to have to start a calendar to keep up with your love life.”

You laugh, kicking off your heels. “It’s not my love life, it’s my job.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, tilting his head. “That’s what they all say before the Pulitzer.”

You throw a couch pillow at him, which he catches with a grin. “Careful,” you warn. “Mocking a journalist is a dangerous game.”

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he deadpans, tossing the pillow back. “I’m just saying, if you add one more guy to the list, I might have to start sending out a newsletter. ‘This week in Emily’s investigative dating escapades…’”

You laugh again, doubling over. “Oh my God, stop.”

He leans back, smug. “What? I’m being supportive. I’m the editor of your romantic research.”

“Uh-huh,” you tease, curling up next to him. “And do editors always get this snarky about their reporters?”

“Only the cute ones,” he says.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Flattery noted, Mr. Editor.”

He grins, eyes softening. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“When the book comes out, make sure the husband character isn’t too much of a dork.”

You grin, resting your head against his chest. “No promises.”

You pour two fingers of bourbon into mismatched glasses — a wedding present from your aunt that never quite made it to the cabinet — and hand one to Tom as you sink onto the couch beside him. The city hums faintly through the cracked window, and your heels are somewhere across the room.

“To journalism,” Tom toasts, raising his glass. “The only career that lets my wife legally flirt with half the Midwest.”

You clink your glass against his, rolling your eyes. “To supportive husbands who don’t mind sharing their Netflix passwords with a rising star.”

“Touché,” he says, grinning as he takes a sip.

You pull your phone from the coffee table and open Love Match, the screen glowing against the dim light. The bourbon warms your throat, the buzz of the night still humming in your chest. “Okay,” you say, scrolling. “Let’s see who the algorithm thinks I should fall in love with next.”

Tom leans closer, chin practically on your shoulder. “Oh wow, that guy looks like he runs a cryptocurrency cult.”

“Next,” you say, swiping left.

You pause on a photo of a man with sharp eyes and perfect hair. “Chris,” you read aloud. “Thirty-five. Owns a marketing firm. Likes: cigars, classic cars, capitalism.”

Tom laughs. “So, a poet.”

“He’s… confident,” you say, scrolling through his profile. Every picture looks like an ad for something expensive — watches, cars, himself.

Tom sips his drink. “You wouldn’t last one dinner with that guy.”

“That’s why it’ll make good journalism,” you say, pretending to type notes. “The cultural anthropology of male bravado.”

Tom chuckles. “More like, The Economic Theories of a Guy Named Chris.”

Before you can add more, your phone buzzes.

“Whoa,” you say, glancing at the message. “He already wrote back.”

Tom leans in. “What’d he say?”

You read aloud: “Hey beautiful, saw you matched with me. Let’s skip the small talk — I’ve built three businesses and I’m not here to waste time. I like smart women, but only if they keep up.”

Tom blinks. “Subtle.”

You grin, already typing. “I’ll play along. ‘Well, lucky for you, I read The Economist for fun.’”

Tom laughs, clinking his glass to yours again. “You’re a menace.”

You wink. “A professional one.”

The night stretches soft around you, the bourbon mellowing everything — the teasing, the nerves, the strangeness of this new life where love and work blur at the edges.