A/N: Sorry it's short. Hope everyone is having a fantastic weekend!

When I wake up, my bedroom is dark and nearly eerie in the silence. I can't remember the last time it was this quiet here. The shades have been pulled closed, though I can see the low, late afternoon sun burning gold around the edges of the window.

I sit up, immediately regret it, and lie back down. My head throbs, like the dull, low thud of a base drum. My body aches—the sort of ache that comes after being terribly sick, or in my case, extremely intoxicated.

I close my eyes, the silence settling into my bones and muscles. I imagine beaches with white sand. Flat, glass like water in cerulean blue and turquoise. Neverending cloudless skies. All the things that yoga teachers, therapists, relaxation specialists, have tried to tell me will send me to a place of soft, mindless, thoughtless bliss. I try to imagine being boneless, melting into the bed.

Sometimes it works, sometimes not. This is one of those not times.

I open my eyes again, slower this time, as I roll to my side. In the din, I can make out a mug on my nightstand. I reach forward and wrap my hand tentatively around it. It is still warm to the touch. I lift my head enough to tilt the mug to my lips and am rewarded with warm tea. Not hot enough to be truly good, but not completely lost. And in my state, it is more than enough. The sweetness floods my parched mouth, and it's like nectar from the gods. I take a mouthful and let it sit for a second, before swallowing, feeling the liquid coat my empty stomach.

Tom is here. Tom is still here. The tea was definitely an act of a thoughtful British man who thinks and plans ahead. I'm relieved I didn't hallucinate that. I had thought at first, that I had. It wouldn't be the first time I had gotten so drunk, and had conversations with imaginary people. Dreams can be an intensely disorienting thing. But no, when I woke up for the first time, however long ago, he was here. And the warm tea is an indication that he's not far away still.

I had studied him in the early gray blue light of the morning. The arch of his brow, the slope of his strong nose. The dip under his cheekbones, and the few days worth of stubble on his angular face. A face I had studied before, in the mellow, fuzzy afterglow of sex, memorizing the planes. In the cool blue shadows of my room, he is the same and yet somehow different.

My conversation with my sister had been short. Short and painful. She'd been angry with me, sad, disappointed and mostly worried. I'd been angry as well, though mostly with myself. The small amount of emotion I had left in me, was directed at her—frustration that she'd sent him, of all people. The one person that I didn't want to see me at my lowest, and here he was. Riding in on his white horse, picking up the pieces, trying to put humpty dumpty back together. Again. I had yelled at her, in the heat of the moment, blamed her for things that were not her fault. Said things I didn't mean. All because she'd sent the one person I truly wanted, but was too weak to ask for.

Flashbacks to the last few nights—like watery, blurred snapshots, filtering through my mind. Partying with the twins, Yvonne and Sharon. It was their idea after news of Shorty had broken. They said we needed to celebrate my new found "freedom", and yet I felt more confined than ever. They'd invited over friends. A lot of "friends". The party had pretty quickly spiraled out of control. It lasted longer than one night, too. People would come and go, and the party would ebb and flow. And I stayed perfectly out of reach the entire time. Drunk enough not to care, not to feel, not to think.

I climb out of bed, slowly. If my legs give out on me, I want to make the least amount of noise possible. I'm not surprised to find that I'm nearly naked. I remember the shower from the other night. More like a dousing in hot water. I'm thankful for it, thankful I was somewhat clean, but the thought of it makes my stomach churn with embarrassment. He was doing what he had to. Trying to help me. And I was a complete wreck.

I long for a hot shower, scalding, in fact. I stumble into the bathroom, flipping on the light as I do.

My reflection is shocking. Harrowing. The bruise on my cheekbone is still there, strange tones of plum and greenish yellow. I'm nude except for my underwear. There are bruises on my outer thighs, where I no doubtedly stumbled drunkenly into things. Dark circles under my eyes seem to complete the look, along with hair that has seen better days.

I flick the lights off, sending the bathroom into forgiving darkness, and I turn on the shower as hot as it will go.

****

The shower doesn't fix everything, but I at least am starting to feel human again. I brush my hair, and slip into clean clothes. Something comfortable, if not all that fashionable. Sweats and a hoodie that I've had for years. I hear Shorty's voice in my head, telling me I need to get back into the "scene". That I need to start dressing like a successful popstar if I want to be one. Just the fact that I still hear him, directing my every move, makes me angry. It is hard to remove his presence completely. I've been used to it for years and years.

I'm scared to leave my bedroom. Scared to see what I will find.

I slip from my room quietly, my stomach churning. The house is nearly silent, but I can hear movement in the kitchen. I make my way downstairs, and hold my breath as I walk around the foyer into the main living area. The last thing I remember is one of the twins doing body shots, and a trio of guys trying to convince some girls I didn't even know to play beer pong on kitchen counter.

I can't imagine what Tom is thinking. I feel a heaviness in the pit of my stomach as I walk through the rooms.

It is immaculately clean. No sign of trash. No sign of parties. It's welcoming even. Or as welcoming as my house can be. I've never quite fully moved in. Never quite made it my own. But there's a few candles burning on the mantel, and around the living room. It smells good, warm and clean. I look around, wrapping my arms around my middle. He's cleaned everything up. Everything.

My heart is hammering in my chest as I walk into the kitchen. Tom's back is to me, and he's standing at the stove. He's wearing a plain white tshirt and jeans, his head lowered over something he's stirring. He hasn't heard me come downstairs. There's a comforting calm to him. A quietness. I feel as if I've walked into a snapshot of what it could have been like between us. If things had been different. If he'd felt the same about me.

"Hi." My voice is low, rough from disuse and being ill. Tom turns quickly, and the sight of his face makes my whole body tense. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes wide and open, forgiving and gentle. He gives me a careful smile and leans back against the counter next to the stove.

"Hello." He says softly. I swallow. "How are you?" A simple question, but one I haven't really been asked by anyone in person since I found out about Shorty. It catches me by surprise, and I don't quite know how to answer at first.

"I'm okay." I give him the simplest answer for the most complicated question. He waits. "I'm not okay." I amend my answer. He grimaces and nods, accepting this.

"Um, thank you. You didn't have to clean...It looks so nice in here." I manage. It's dark outside now, I notice as I glance out the window over his shoulder. Tom shrugs a shoulder and then tucks his hands into his pockets.

"I had some time. Are you hungry?" He asks, and walks over and pulls out one of the three chairs that sit at the large island in the middle of the kitchen. I hesitate for a second, watching him, but then I move forward, and sit down in the high bar chair.

"I'm starving." I say softly. "I don't know when I last ate." I add. I feel nervous, and at the same time, comforted by his presence. He shouldn't be here. I'm embarrassed he saw me like he did, and I'm mortified that he showed up after our last conversation was less than pleasant. But regardless, he's here. And I can't help but take comfort from that fact.

"I made chicken noodle soup. And do you want a cheese toastie?" He turns back around and starts pulling dishes from my cabinets like he lives here. I blink, watching him.

"You made soup? Like from a can? Campbells?" I ask. He turns around and raises an eyebrow, giving me a stern look.

"No darling, never a can." He smiles then, the first real smile he's given me, and I feel something cold and icy in the room melt away. I smile back, my shoulders sagging slightly.

"You made chicken noodle from scratch?" I ask, not able to keep the amusement from my voice. The amusement and adoration. I shouldn't, but I can't stop.

"And what's a cheese toastie?"

Another stern look. I laugh, a soft, tentative noise.

"I went for a run this morning, and I found a rather alarming amount of specialty grocery stores. So, I picked up a few things on my way back." He turns back from the stove, and sets a steaming bowl down in front of me. It smells heavenly, and looks just as good.

"And a cheese toastie is what you'd most likely call...grilled cheese." He flips into a broad, emphasized American accent, and it makes me genuinely laugh.

"It'll be just a moment." He says easily, and pulls a spatula from the jar on the counter, flipping it nonchalantly in his hands. I can't do anything really, but watch him for a second. Watch him standing here in my kitchen, as if it is nothing. As if he hasn't done me the biggest favor anyone has ever done. I feel my heart skip, thud, and possibly stutter to a stop.

"Where did you learn to cook, Tom?" I ask, and I look down at my soup, picking up my spoon.

"My mum. She's fantastic. We spent a lot of time cooking together. Well, we spent a lot of time together in general. She's an incredible woman." He says, and his voice has a hint of sadness to it. I look up, and he gives me a small smile. We've never talked much about his family.

"You don't get to see her often, I'm guessing?" I ask.

"No. Not since I moved here, actually. My dad died about six months before I met Becca. I'm hoping I can get Gems there soon. Someday. Mum's not getting any younger..." He says with a short, sad laugh and then turns and busies himself at the stove. I let this sink in for a moment. Timing can be a damning thing. He lost his father right before he met Becca.

"I'm sorry, I really am. I know what it's like to lose a parent. Or both parents." I say gently. He turns back around then and his eyes are warm and understanding.

"I'm sorry, too, Billie. It's never easy." He clears his throat. "But we had some great years together." He plates a sandwich, cuts it diagonally into triangles, and places it in front of me. I smile at him, and hold up one of the quarters, trying not to laugh.

"Gemma would approve." I tease. He grins and shrugs.

"Force of habit. I suppose adults like their sandwiches simply cut in half." He says goodnaturedly. I shrug and take a bite, the sandwich is delicious—hot, buttery and cheesey.

"Oh...mmm." I hum softly. Tom goes to the fridge, pulls a bottle out, and a second later I hear a telltale fizzing pop. Soda.

"How's the soup?" He asks, and puts a glass of coke down in front of me. I stare at him, eyes wide. He leans against the island, then reaches forward and snatches a triangle of sandwich off my plate. He munches for a second and then waits.

"It's perfect. Thank you." I say after taking a few more bites. It is, too.

"You're welcome." He says, and then turns back to the stove and begins making another sandwich. We stay in silence for a few minutes. He makes sandwiches, and I eat. I feel ravenous suddenly, and every bite is more delicious than the last. He puts another sandwich down in front of me, and I don't resist nor do I complain.

"Are you going to eat with me?" I ask, between bites. He nods, and dishes himself a bowl of soup. He stands at the island, in front of me, eating while we chat. It feels casual. Intimate. And if I weren't so hungry, it would be hard not to focus on just how badly I have wanted this moment. The amount of times I've imagined this exact interaction. Only, under different circumstances.

"I'm pretty sure I've gotten down the perfect butter to cheese ratio on these. What do you think?" He asks, as he crunches into a sandwich. I smile, sitting back.

"I have no complaints."

"Well, Gemma says they're rubbish. She only likes when Rosie makes them, which means extra cheese, dry toast." He sighs, looking as if he's been offended. I laugh softly, and take a deep breath.

"How is Gemma?" I ask, my heart squeezing at the thought of her. He stops smiling then, and looks thoughtful, hesitant. Tom leans back, and crosses his arms over his broad chest. The muscles flex in his biceps, and with the kitchen lights shining down on him as they are, he looks almost god like.

"She's doing good. She's had a tough few weeks, but she's a trooper." He smiles, and I fight every urge to push for details. But she's not mine. And the information is not something I'm necessarily privy too anymore. If I were to ask, and he declined the information, I don't know that I could stand it.

"I'm sorry how I left." The words come out, and surprise even me. He looks away from me for a second, and nods.

"You had to do what you thought was right." He tilts his head down toward the floor, and clears his throat. He doesn't look back up. I lick my lips.

"How's Becca?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral. It shakes.

Tom looks up, startled. "Becca." He says sternly. I nod. "She's gone, Billie."

I feel my face flush. Emotions swirl through me.

"Did she leave? Or...did you..." I can't ask. I force myself to look at him. He keeps my gaze and takes a long, deep breath.

"I told her to leave. She has no place there with us. I was...really confused, and shell shocked when she showed up. I should never have let her stay in the first place. So I asked her to leave. It's not healthy for Gems. Not now, at least. If Gemma wants to know her when she's older, I'll always give her that option." He clenches his jaw, and reaches forward, clearing my empty plate and bowl for me.

"More?" He lifts the bowl slightly and I shake my head. I suddenly feel heavy all over, exhausted, full and ready for real sleep. He seems to read it in me, and Tom places the dishes in the sink.

"You should get some rest, Billie." He says gently, softly.

"I just slept all day." I reply, wanting to be obstinate for no reason in particular. Especially since I can feel myself fading fast. The food has sent my body into sleep mode. Restoration mode. Something I desperately need.

"Right, but you're in no state." He runs a hand through his hair and gives me a stern look.

"Are you..." I pause, think hard about what I'm about to say. "Are you leaving soon?" I ask. Tom's blue eyes follow me, as I slip off the chair.

"I'm leaving tomorrow evening. I've got to be back for work on Monday. And Gemma has a field trip on Tuesday I'm chaperoning." He says softly. Real life.

"Will you come upstairs with me? I just don't want to be alone." I ask. I have to ask. He's here, now, and I can't let that slip through my fingers. Even if it means just lying next to him in the dark for a few hours.

Tom swallows, and bows his head slightly. He doesn't respond, but he leads the way, slipping a gentle, warm hand around mine as he directs me toward the stairs.