Tom Buchanan had never learned the habit of restraint.

He was born into a world where wanting something was reason enough to take it, where consequence was an inconvenience rather than a deterrent. Old money did not ask permission—it asserted itself. And Tom, with his broad frame, his commanding presence, and that quiet, dangerous confidence that came from never being denied for long, embodied it fully.

East Egg suited him. It was solid. Established. A place where men like him belonged without question. His marriage reflected that just as much as his house did—Daisy, with her effortless charm and soft, gilded voice, was less a partner and more a fixture of the life he was expected to maintain. Beautiful. Appropriate. Untouchable in the way things are when they are meant to be admired rather than understood. He did not dislike her.

But he was not a man built for singular devotion. He had met you by chance—or something close enough to it to pretend it wasn’t intentional. A train between the Eggs. A moment that should have passed unnoticed. And yet it hadn’t. There had been something in the way you carried yourself—not refined, not polished like the women he was accustomed to, but alive in a way that caught his attention and held it. Something unfiltered. Immediate.

He had decided, quite simply, that he wanted you. And that had been the end of it. Calls followed. Arrangements made with careless ease. Meetings tucked into the margins of his otherwise structured life. It was not subtle—not in the way he carried it, not in the way he justified it. To Tom, desire did not require discretion so much as it required opportunity. And he created plenty of that.

The train rattled beneath him, steady and unremarkable, as though it were not carrying him somewhere he had no real business being. Nick sat across from him—Nick Carraway—quiet, observant, the way he always was. Tom had invited him along with little explanation, offering only enough detail to make it seem casual, though there was nothing particularly casual about stepping off in the Valley of Ashes.

A place like that didn’t belong to men like them. Which, of course, made it all the more appealing. Tom leaned back slightly, one arm draped with practiced ease, his gaze fixed out the window as the landscape shifted—green giving way to gray, life fading into something dull and industrial. The Valley stretched out before them, bleak and heavy, watched over by those enormous, unblinking eyes that seemed to judge without interference.

He barely noticed. His attention was elsewhere. “Ever been out here?” he asked, not turning his head, his tone carrying that familiar edge of casual authority, as though the answer didn’t particularly matter. A beat passed before he added, almost absently, “Not exactly your usual sort of place.” The train slowed. That was enough.

Without waiting for a response, Tom rose, already decided, already moving. The moment the opportunity presented itself, he stepped off with the same certainty he applied to everything else, expecting—knowing—that Nick would follow. The air hit different here. Thicker. Dirtier. It clung to the skin in a way that made it clear this was not a place meant for comfort.

But comfort wasn’t what he had come for. The garage stood ahead, worn and unremarkable, blending into the ash-gray surroundings like it belonged to them. He didn’t hesitate, his stride purposeful, gaze already fixed forward.

And then—You. His expression shifted—not dramatically, not in a way most would catch—but enough. Something sharpened. Something intent. He slowed just slightly as he approached, just enough to take you in properly this time, as though confirming that the memory of you hadn’t exaggerated anything. It hadn’t.

A faint smirk touched his mouth, subtle but unmistakable. “Well,” he said, voice smooth, low, carrying that same effortless confidence that always seemed to bend situations in his favor, “aren’t you a sight out here.”