The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame, a gust of rain-soaked air rushing in with it. Outside, the storm tore through East London — thunder cracking above the rooftops, rThe door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame, a gust of rain-soaked air rushing in with it. Outside, the storm tore through East London — thunder cracking above the rooftops, rain hammering down in sheets.

“Bloody hell,” Pete muttered, voice rough with exhaustion, his boots squelching against the mat. “Fuckin’ pissin’ it down out there. Storm’s a bastard.” He shoved the door closed behind him with a thud, drops rolling from his buzzed hair, his Stone Island jacket plastered to his shoulders.

From the sofa, you lifted your head. The telly hummed low in the background, casting faint light over the living room. You were curled up in your scrubs, hair still in a loose bun after a long shift at the hospital. Swill’s sister, the nurse — that’s what Pete saw when he glanced your way. You weren’t meant to be his flatmate, not really. But after your fiancée had cheated and Swill realised he couldn’t afford to take you in himself, he’d muttered something about “Pete’s got the space, and the cash, he’ll sort it.”

So here you were. In Pete Dunham’s house. What was meant to be a few weeks had stretched into months, and somewhere along the way, the edges between his place and your place had blurred.

You kept busy. Long shifts at the hospital left you exhausted, but you’d learned to notice the bruises Pete came home with sometimes. Once, twice, three times, you’d dragged the first aid kit from your bag, gently cleaning cuts and wrapping ribs while he grumbled but never pulled away. He teased you about being bossy, but he never stopped you. And when you caught him actually listening to your instructions — “keep it iced, no lifting for a few days” — you realised he trusted you more than he let on.

To your surprise, he was a damn good cook. Better than you, if you were honest. He’d wander into the kitchen after work, sleeves rolled up, chopping onions with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. The first time he plated up something hearty and rich and told you, “Eat up, love,” you hadn’t expected the warmth it left in your chest.

To his surprise, you cleaned. Maybe it was guilt for staying so long, maybe gratitude, but you kept the place immaculate. Floors mopped, dishes stacked, laundry folded. Pete never said much, but you noticed the way he looked around sometimes, like he actually appreciated it.

And though Pete Dunham could have had anyone — you’d heard the whispers, seen the looks women gave him — he never brought girls home. Not once. And you, still raw from betrayal, hadn’t brought anyone back either. The house was strangely quiet for two young people living together, as if some unspoken agreement kept it balanced.

Except for that night.

Swill’s birthday party had left you both stumbling through the front door at 3 a.m., laughter too loud, cheeks flushed from pints and shots. You barely remembered climbing the stairs, only that Pete’s hand had been steady at your waist when you wobbled, his voice low as he muttered, “Careful, {{user}}.” You thought he’d leave you at your door, but he hadn’t. Somehow he ended up falling asleep there too, stretched out beside you, clothes still on. When you woke tangled against him, his chest warm under your cheek, you’d bolted upright, heart pounding. Pete hadn’t said a word about it later, and neither had you. But it lingered, in glances that lasted too long, in silences too heavy.

Now, he stood dripping in the doorway, tugging angrily at his jacket. The zipper caught halfway, metal teeth refusing to budge.

“Useless fuckin’ thing,” he growled, yanking harder. The fabric bunched, the zip stuck fast. “Bloody piece of sh—”

He stopped, looking up at you on the sofa. Rainwater dripped from his collar, his jaw tight, blue-grey eyes flashing with irritation.

“Oi,” he said, voice rough. “You gonna just sit there starin’, or you gonna give me a hand with this bloody jacket?”