Work Text:
The hot, blinding June sun filtered through the bare windows of Mary’s living room. The small rental flat was stripped of its usual warmth, reduced to a sofa, a coffee table, and empty built-in shelves. Staggered in a corner, four cardboard boxes labeled History, Literature/Poetry, Reference, and Misc in red marker stood a couple of feet away from a separate stack labeled LONGBOURN in heavy black ink.
In the bedroom, Mary looked down at two large suitcases overflowing with colorful dresses and linen clothes. She kicked the smaller, half-filled suitcase to the side—the one carrying the last of her toiletries and personal items.
The front door unlocked with a sharp click, its echo bouncing off the bare walls and into the bedroom. No knock. He hadn't knocked in two years.
Footsteps padded down the narrow hallway, soft and unhurried.
“Hi,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hi, Tom,” she replied with a smile, turning toward the bathroom to grab her hairdryer.
“So,” he said, sitting on the small armchair in the corner. “You’re really doing it, aren’t you?”
“I am,” she said with a dry chuckle, shoving the hairdryer into its fabric pouch and tucking it beside a photo album in her luggage. She stood up with a small huff. “I made my decision a while ago, remember?”
Tom looked out the window, avoiding her eyes. “I remember. I just thought—”
Mary didn't let him finish. She ducked into the living room and returned with two cans of Guinness, pressing one into his hand. “The flight is tomorrow morning,” she said, popping her tab and taking a long sip.
Tom took a slow drink and gave a small nod. “I can drive you to—”
“No need. William’s driver is picking me up.”
A heavy beat passed between them.
“Of course. William’s driver.”
Mary closed her eyes for a brief second. “Tom, please—”
“William’s car. William’s villa in Puglia. William’s deep love for Italy.”
Silence settled over the room.
“I’ve wanted to go to Italy for years, Tom. You know that,” she said, trying to inject some reason into her voice.
“I do,” he said. “I also know William doesn't do anything that doesn't serve his ego.”
Mary sat on the edge of the bare mattress. “We’re both adults. We enjoy each other’s company, the sex is fine, and neither of us is looking for a long-term commitment. He gets someone to keep the villa from feeling empty, and I get to finish my draft in peace while enjoying good food and paying zero rent.”
Tom turned toward the window again, a bitter smile tugging his lips. “The perfect friends with benefits arrangement,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter.
Mary watched him, inhaling deeply as he turned back to face her. She set her beer down on the bedside table—a little harder than she intended—and reached for two leather journals.
Before her fingers touched them, Tom was in front of her.
“Don’t go.”
Mary froze, breathing slowly through her nose. “Aren’t you a little late to say that? You had three weeks after I told you.”
“Don’t go, Mary. Stay here.”
She dropped the journals into the open suitcase and crossed her arms, her chin lifting. “Give me a reason.”
Tom looked down at his shoes.
“A real, logical reason why I should cancel everything at the eleventh hour, forfeit a year in Italy, and scramble for another damp house in London when I’ve already given up the lease on this one,” she pressed.
Tom looked up, his eyes searching her face. “William is an idiot. He’s a man who feeds his ego on Instagram likes and shiny objects so people look at him. Right now, you are his shiny thing, Mary. He wants a brilliant, quiet girl sitting in his living room so he feels cultured. In six months he’ll get bored, buy an olive mill, or spot someone at the beach, and you’ll be stranded in a coastal town with an unfinished manuscript, looking for a ticket home.”
Anger spiked hot in her chest, sharp and defensive. “William cares about me,” she snapped. “He loves me.”
It was a lie.
It was a cold, cheap and obvious lie, and they both knew it. William didn't love her, and she didn't want him to.
She jerked her head to stare at the open suitcase, then forced her eyes back to Tom.
He stared at her for a long, quiet moment, a dark expression washing over his features.
“He didn’t say that,” Tom said softly, taking a cautious half-step toward her. “He didn’t say that because he doesn’t.”
“Tom—”
“And you don’t love him either,” he added, his voice cracking. His hands trembled slightly around his beer can as he set it on the bedside table next to hers. He swallowed hard, looking deep into her eyes. “Mary, I—”
The words were right there, forming on the edge of the air—the exact words she had spent forever wishing, waiting, and praying to hear from him. But not today.
Before he could speak them into existence, Mary raised her hand and pressed her open palm firmly over his mouth.
Tom went rigid. His eyes stayed locked on hers, wide, raw and desperate, his warm breath fluttering against her skin.
Mary knew if he said it out loud, she would stay. She would drop everything, undo her life, and burn in this city for him. But she had made her choice. She had given her word.
“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together. “Please.”
Tom didn’t pull back.
Slowly, he closed his eyes. He raised his hand, wrapping his fingers gently around hers. He leaned into her palm and pressed a single, tender kiss into the center of it.
His lips were warm against her skin.
They stayed suspended like that for a beat. Then he stepped back, letting her hand fall away.
He offered her one final look.
“Goodbye, Mary.”
He turned and walked out of the room. Soft footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by the sharp, final click of the front door.
Mary stayed frozen.
Slowly, her hand balled into a tight fist over her heart, trying to press the warmth of his lips into her skin before it faded completely.
Her own words echoed back to her, hollow and disgusting.
We enjoy each other’s company.
The sex is fine.
Zero rent.
Her vision blurred.
Who are you, Mary?
The question hit her like a sudden, brutal slap. She stared at the two overflowing suitcases, then at the two Guinness cans sitting side by side on the bedside table—barely touched, sweating onto the wood.
She turned and walked into the living room.
The space was stripped clean, her life packed neatly into cardboard boxes. History. Literature. Reference. Stacked like artifacts of a woman she didn't even recognize anymore.
Her whole life, compartmentalized, taped up, and ready to be shipped off for a comfortable lie.
Tears finally spilled over, hot and silent down her cheeks, as her eyes locked on the door—and the terrible, quiet space beyond it.