“How is Cav managing?” Fuck, how much it killed me to ask him. As far as I was concerned, the guy could take himself off on one of his beloved twenty-mile runs and just keep on going until he fell off the end of the earth.

  Mungo’s gaze darted away. Towards the ducks, although I don’t think he saw their antics. I wasn’t sure what he saw, to be honest.

  “He keeps texting. He’s trying to see me again,” he said at last. “He wants to apologise.”

  Christ, the guy had a fucking nerve. I held my breath. “Are you going to let him?”

  Mungo shook his head. “No. He’s pretending to show remorse, but underneath, I know he’s still angry. And if I saw him, he’d try to twist it, like I goaded him into a reaction. Like he acted how any normal person would when pushed and upset.”

  “He fucking didn’t,” I retorted, and Mungo smiled sadly.

  “I know. You can calm down. I should have foreseen how he’d react. But a part of me still thinks I deserved it.”

  “No, you bloody didn’t! You declined his marriage proposal and broke up because he wasn’t right for you! It takes two people to make a relationship a success.”

  “I tried to kiss you before I’d broken things off with him, though. And I would have done if you’d let me. A lot more than kissing, too. I don’t like myself for that.” He sniffed loudly.

  Pretending not to notice, I chewed on my sandwich. “Well, none of us is perfect. You were upset. Tempers and passions were riding high. And...” I waved my sandwich at him, “Weigh that up against what he’s done to you, and it barely registers.”

  “You’re right, but I'm still ashamed. Because I had feelings for you throughout our relationship. I was… dishonest in my head. Hundreds of times.”

  “Pah.” I waved it off. Obviously, as a true and worthy friend, I totally ignored the swell of utter pleasure his confession gave me.

  “And Cav and I had some good times,” he continued. “Even if the end was… horrible.”

  “I’m sorry. Again.”

  Putting down his fork, he gave a drawn-out sigh. “Yeah. Well, me too.”

  “No, I mean I’m sorry I had a part in this happening to you.”

  “You didn’t, Milo. You’re not to blame. I did it to myself. I wanted it too much. To be settled. To have the whole fucking peaceful… domesticity of it. Like Frankie and Lys have found. And Maddie and Darren. I envied them so badly. I wanted a home, a partner, cooking together, walking through my front door after a day at work to someone who was there just for me.” His expression was empty. Bereft. “I wanted my person in my corner, you know?”

  I did know. More than Mungo would ever realise. We’d both set up camp in each other’s corners years ago, and I threw it away, because I hadn’t fucking noticed.

  Blinking back tears, he rubbed at his face, then blew out a long breath. “But… I… I understand now that Cav wasn’t the right person. Although I wanted him to be. So fucking much. Because as much as I’m trying to forget it, he could be clever and funny and sexy. But while I was too busy concentrating on the good parts, I overlooked the parts that were flawed.” He huffed. “While he was only too happy to point out all of mine.”

  My hand found his and squeezed, then dragged it onto my lap. “Shit, Mungs, I’m so sorry. I can’t think of anything else to say.”

  With a hollow laugh, he wiped at his eyes, staring down at our joined hands. “Frankie says Cav makes more withdrawals than deposits in a relationship. And I think they’re right.”

  “Annoyingly, they usually are. We’ll get you through this. In time.”

  “I know.” He sighed heavily, in no hurry to retrieve his hand. As far as I was concerned, I’d happily hold onto it forever.

  At the end of our sixteenth pleasant al fresco lunch (not that I was counting), I introduced a goodbye peck on the cheek and let it gradually grow in detail and length until our smooching became the highlight of the lunchtime agenda. Kissing Mungo. On a bench. Most lunchtimes. In a freezing blooming park. Even the ducks had fucked off.

  On the upside, it was a lot of kissing. Each flick of his tongue tasted of cucumber salads, coleslaw, smoked salmon, and cream cheese. Oh, and the rest of my fucking life, which made them easily the best kisses I’d ever known, even if they did collude with the plummeting temperatures to turn my bollocks blue.

  “I know this isn’t enough for you Milo,” Mungo ventured one day, as I rearranged my modest packet in my suit trousers for, like, the hundredth time. “I’m… um… at the risk of sounding like a stuck record, I’m still processing a lot.”

  “My God don’t worry about that,” I said, waving off his concern like my erection was of no consequence whatsoever. Spoiler alert: it really fucking was. Eight weeks had passed since I’d watched cum spew from his cock, not to mention his fucking beautiful expression. “You walked away from someone you care about. It’s okay to be sad after making a right decision.”

  “I don’t care about him. Not anymore.”

  I threw him a grin. “Good to hear.” Very good to hear, in fact.

  “Milo? Tris and Dom are flying back to the States on Sunday. Which means you’re coming over to have dinner on Friday. Smart casual. Just the six of us. Bring your toothbrush. We’ll make a night of it. And Lys and I have tasked you with breaking Mungo out of his misery prison. It’s time to burn that black suit, petal. Once and for all. Seven thirty sharp.”

  Thank fuck for that. As Frankie delivered their list of typical Frankie instructions, I shimmied around the kitchen, already planning my outfit. Naturally, it paid not to appear too keen. “Let me check my diary, flower. I’m a very busy man. I don’t want the brutal devastation of two bears on my conscience if I miss a hot date at the Lizard Lounge on Saturday.”

  Counting to ten, I performed a few theatrical ums and aahs, pretending to scroll through my phone. Despite my lunchtime handholding and kissing sessions, the pace roughly matched the temperature of my skinny tush parked on that blooming bench. Nonetheless, I’d sensed a sea change in Mungo over the last week or so. We’d had a trip to the cinema and held hands on the back row. Feeding each other extortionately priced popcorn, Mungo had guffawed over Jim Carrey’s antics, only once warily glancing around at the other cinema goers before taking our seats. Dropping me off afterwards, we’d kissed in the car until the windows steamed up. Finally pulling apart, I’d raised my eyebrows suggestively and invited him in. Next time, he’d promised. And basically, for half the night, I’d wanked myself stupid.

  More important than all of that, however, winter was coming, and the cold bench had served its purpose. Frankie was handing me a golden opportunity to step it up.

  “Ah, good. You’re in luck, Frankie. That night’s free after all.”

  “No shit,” they drawled. “The Olympic flame goes out more than you do, petal. Unless, of course, you prefer spending your Friday evenings pretending two teenagers aren’t enjoying mutual hand job sessions a mere six feet above your bumper box of Maltesers, under the guise of revising the Krebs cycle?”

  “You are such a little bitch, flower! I’ll have you know those delightfully innocent schoolboys of mine are working very hard. And I went on a hot date to the cinema last Tuesday. With Mungo.”

  “He’s much better, isn’t he?” Frankie’ voice dropped lower. “He took me and Lys out for dinner at the weekend to thank us for letting him lodge with us. Totally unnecessary, of course.”

  “He’s awesome,” I said, because I couldn’t help myself. “He’s finally putting that piece of work behind him.”

  Frankie went quiet for a moment. “You were right about Cav, Milo. I should have listened. I don’t know the details—I’ll never ask, and Mungo will never tell—but I know something bad happened.”

  “A lot of bad happened, flower. We both should have picked up on it earlier. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Are you and he…” They trailed off, leaving the question dangling. I grinned to myself.

  “I blooming hope so. Apparently, masturbating twice a week increases your life expectancy by 10 percent. If we don’t get it on soon, I’m facing immortality.”

  They snorted in non-binary; neither ladylike nor masculine. “Then bring a bottle of something fizzy. Get him in the mood. And may your jock straps be untwisted and your eyeliner even, petal. Ciao ciao.”

  The majority of London men wore soft checked shirts like they’d misplaced an axe in the vicinity of a bonfire back in 1995 and were still searching for it. Only a select few rocked them like their destiny. Mungo White squarely inhabited the latter camp. In combo with the beard and loose-fit soft denim? He was the smart casual hipster gift that kept on giving.

  I, on the other hand, might have overdressed.

  “Mate, it’s only dinner with the fam around the kitchen table,” observed Tristan, flexing one of his lived-in vintage T-shirts. “Who are you hoping to impress?”

  “No one,” I lied. “My wardrobe is slutty or business mogul, you know that. There is no in between.”

  The guy I was trying to impress gave my mesh-covered midriff a lingering once-over, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He scratched his beard. “I like it.” A divine flush peered around the edges of the beard. “Sweetheart. I like it a lot.”

  Frankie plonked down the starter with the finesse of a weightlifter dropping a barbell. What with everyone else loved up and me a social outcast, the last dinner I ate at Frankie’s had been quite a while ago. In the interim, I might have inflated their culinary abilities. With the arrival of the first course, I revised my hitherto good opinions downwards.

  Gallantly, Tristan took one for the team. “What the fuck is this?” Prodding it with a cautious finger, he examined something possessing all the attributes of a singed eyeball.

  “Better than anything you’ve ever thrown together,” retorted Frankie, which wasn’t far from the truth. “Shall we bring up your teenaged fried Spam fetish in front of your handsome young boyfriend, or leave that until dessert?”

  “Obviously,” Lysander supplied diplomatically, “Frankie has prepared us a starter of scallops, pan-seared in chorizo oil, then lightly dusted with balsamic vinegar.” Like the loyal husband he was, he chewed for far longer than a scallop usually necessitated, before swallowing and reaching for a second. “Mmm. Delicious. Goes down far too easily.”

  “A bit like Milo on a Saturday night,” cackled Frankie.

  I smothered a grin. I’d missed our dinner-party repartee over the last few months. “At least I’ve never made it onto Timeout magazine’s list of Ten Things to Do During a Gay Weekend in London, flower.”

  Next to me, Mungo softly chuckled. “Touché.”

  I nudged his shoulder, then turned back to Frankie. “And at what point in this beautiful friendship did my Saturday nights become the butt of everyone’s jokes?”

  “Since your butt became the butt of everyone’s…”

  “Thank you,” I cut in. “It was a rhetorical question.”

  As we chomped our way through the burned offerings, Mungo stayed mostly silent. But his quiet didn’t mean he was doing poorly. I hadn’t seen this behaviour in way too long, but it roughly translated into the extroverts are doing their thing, and I’m soaking it up, his modus operandi whenever Frankie and I tormented each other. Basically, we were soothing white noise, and I was one hundred per cent happy to provide. Especially when his big warm hand landed on my thigh and stayed there.

  “When will you be back in the UK for good?” Frankie directed to Dom and Tristan. “Don’t think for a minute I’m going to miss you, baby bro, but it’s a shame to have that big old pad on the floor below us going empty.”

  “Tempted to move in, Milo?” Lysander asked slyly, the only person who’d noticed the location of Mungo’s hand. “Maybe with a housemate?”

  “Goodness me, no.” I shook my head. “Too far from Mrs E’s kebab house. Not to mention the teeny-tiny matter of being way out of my budget.”

  They could keep their fancy apartments up in the clouds. The only one I needed to clamber onto was Cloud Mungo White.

  “I miss Mrs E’s kebabs,” said Mungo suddenly. The others had moved on, discussing St. Cloud stuff; Mungo and I were temporary outsiders. “I haven’t had a taste in way too long. They didn’t feature in the diets, as you can probably imagine.”

  Since the break-up, he hardly ever mentioned day-to-day details of his life with Cav without a miserable expression. As one didn't appear, I decided this was progress and rested my head on his shoulder. “Kebabs before abs, flower. Everyone knows that. You should come over to my place and have one with me. Soon.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’d like one now, to be honest.”

  Food tasted better when you ate it with friends, which was bloody fortunate because the main course was on par with the first.

  “Pissing bollocks, I may have left this in the hot oven a little too long,” announced Frankie as Lysander dished out some kind of brown gloopy meat. Beef stroganoff, allegedly. Thank God the wine was plentiful. We’d need it to swill the damned stuff down.

  “You’ve cremated it,” Tris remarked cheerfully. “That buzzing was the smoke alarm, not the oven timer.”

  Giving him a filthy look, Frankie served us all a dollop—more of a slice to be honest. “Yes, well, Lys and I suddenly had some dreadfully urgent business to attend to, and we… um… sort of lost track of time.” They threw Lysander a soppy, doe-eyed grin, then added unnecessarily, “In the bedroom.”

  I speared my fork with something unidentifiable, feeling brave. “Well, I hope you washed your hands very thoroughly before returning to your culinary duties, flower.”

  Tris pulled a face. “Jesus, Milo. It’s bad enough, without that visual.” Dubiously, we all eyed our plates.

  “Um… can I get some ketchup?” Dom headed for the kitchen cupboards. “So I can drown it, just to make sure it’s really dead?”

  “You are no longer my favourite American brother-in-law,” shouted Frankie to his retreating back.

  “Cool beans, bro! But you’re still my scariest one!” Dom hollered.

  As I ploughed through the leathery meat, doused in ketchup, while Mungo stoically soldiered on beside me, I reflected on the previous dinner party. It couldn’t have been more different. Sure, Frankie and Lys’s place was similarly immaculate, the tableware divine, and the wine top-notch. The food was actually ten times worse, but who cared with this company and when Mungo’s hand was creeping up my thigh?

  “You don’t need to sleep on the sofa, Milo.”

  The evening ended with everyone full (even Frankie couldn’t fuck up a plate of cheese), a little tipsy, and bloody happy. Exactly as a dinner party should end. Tris and Dom retired to the apartment a level below and Frankie and Lys to bed. Which left me and my best friend awkwardly shuffling around each other.

  “It’s no bother, honestly.” I prodded at the plumptious goose down pillow under my head. “You know me. I’m a man of simple tastes. Easily satisfied with the very best.”

  Shabbily bed-ruffled and so damned gorgeous, he gave a raspy low chuckle. In checked pyjama bottoms and brawny and bare from the waist up, the guy was a fucking vision. “I do know. But I need you in here. With me.”

  A tingly feeling welled in my belly; a sure signal common sense was leaving the building. Nonetheless, I decided faster than the speed of light. I’d caught more than glimpses of the old Mungo tonight; he’d been present more than not. Life appeared to be settling back to normal, whatever normal was. Some days I felt I was still chasing it.

  “Um, okay. Yes. Um… shall I bring this comfy pillow?”

  I held it up. I mean, it was unbeatable too, in its own way. Mungo cast his gaze over it, giving his beard a contemplative stroke. Half the time, I swear he didn’t even know he was fucking doing it.

  “You don’t have to, not unless you want to build a fort or something. I’ve already arranged some comfy pillows for you.” Curling his lip gently, almost shyly, he pointed to his chest, matted with whorls of thick hair, spun like silk. “Two of them. Right here.”

  Oh my God, never wake me from this dream. His chest for my pillow? His arms my blanket? His heartbeat under my ear, singing my song? Count me in.

  Long-dormant twink energy propelled me into the bedroom. And then fled as, inexplicably, nerves took over, leaving me hugging myself, feeling strangely exposed in my satin cami and shorts. I’d slept in the same bed as Mungo hundreds of times, one or both of us wearing a lot less than now. “You mean, in here? With you?”

  Pulling back the covers, he slid under, then patted the empty spot next to him. “Yeah. I need one of your cuddles like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Christ, him and me both.

  “What’s suddenly brought this on?” I joined him, preparing to simply, I didn’t know, lie there, and talk. Mungo, however, had other ideas, dragging me closer so my head lay exactly where he’d promised: on the twin mounds of his fucking delectable chest.

  From here onwards, this location would be my new home.

  “I don’t know. Three-quarters of a bottle of Chablis, maybe? But I lay here in the dark, thinking about you out there, and wondered how it would be if you were in here. And it scared and excited me, so I thought I should probably do it.”

  “You’re an adrenaline junkie now?”

  He scoffed. “Hardly. A Milo junkie, maybe.”

  A kiss landed on top of my head as he snuggled me tighter. A confetti shower of pleasure settled around my soul. “Not all addictions need treating, you know. Just saying.”

  The stillness of the penthouse at night never ceased to amaze me. All of London spread out below, countless people and cars and bars and offices. But up here in the shadowy bedroom with nothing more than a sliver of wet moonlight peeking through a crack in the curtains, we could have been the only ones in the entire city left alive.

  “You’ve stopped talking.” His low huff of laughter vibrated under my ear.